Beatrix
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: What if Katherine of Aragon had died in childbirth in 1518, leaving Henry with no Queen and no son? With a widowed King and countless Royal Houses and ambitious families vying for his hand, which woman is going to catch his eye and take his heart? Who will become his Beatrix?
1. Chapter 1

**Beatrix**

**10 November 1518**

With a woman's final anguished breath, the fate of a country changed forever.

The woman was Queen Katherine of Aragon, wife to King Henry VIII of England and her body, exhausted with the travails of six pregnancies and childbirths, was finally giving up.

The Physicians exchanged a look over her head.

"It's no good, Thomas," one of them said, "The child is stuck. The labour has gone on for too long. Even if we were to cut open Her Majesty, there's but a slim chance that the child would still live. And Her Majesty's person is sacred. We cannot…"

"Aye, but if this child is a boy, then it is the King's heir. The son he has wanted for this past decade. If it yet lives, the child is our Prince of Wales. Doing nothing means we give that boy up for lost. We may well murder him. Need I remind you of the oath we both took when we entered this profession?"

"No."

"Well then. And this is no ordinary mother and child. This is the Queen of England, giving birth to a child that may well be our Prince. Would you have the blood of a Prince on your hands, William?"

"Sirs," a woman's softly accented voice broke in before the other man could respond, "This is no time to think of Royal protocol. The Queen is a woman and a mother like any other. She would want you to do everything within your power to save her child."

The physicians turned to look at the speaker.

"With all due respect, Mistress Willoughby, you know nothing…"

"No," Maria Willoughby, _nee_ de Salinas, cut him off, "I do not. But I do know Catalina. I know what she would want."

Pausing, she stroked a tendril of her mistress's auburn hair away from the waxen face. When she spoke again, her voice was scarcely above a whisper, but there was a determination in it that could not be gainsaid.

"Cata is beyond pain now. She's gone to meet our beloved Father in Heaven. She's in His hands. So do what you have to do, Sirs. Do what you have to do for the sake of this country. I'll answer for it to His Majesty."

Bowing before the steel in her eyes and voice, the two men nodded and reached silently for their scalpels.

With trembling hands, they sliced jaggedly into the Queen's still warm flesh, praying they wouldn't be sent to Hell for violating Her Majesty's person.

To no avail. They were too late.

His Highness, the Prince of Wales, who would have been the apple of his father's eye, had he lived, but instead had done nothing more than condemn both himself and his mother to death, lay jammed in the birth canal. He was perfectly formed, but large. Too large.

Dr William Butts picked him, rubbed him down with a linen cloth and put his ear to the boy's chest, searching for a sign of life that he already knew would not be there.

"Dead?" His colleague's voice was low, mournful. William nodded gravely.

"Dead."

* * *

Henry knew something was wrong. When he heard Cata's screaming stop, yet failed to hear the piercing cry that heralded his son's entry into the world, he knew something was wrong.

So it was hardly a surprise to see Dr Linacre appear at the door with gravity in his face and sorrow in his eyes.

"Your Majesty."

"The Queen? The Prince?"

"The child was too large. Her Majesty fought valiantly, indeed, we all did all we could, but in the end, Nature took its course. We lost them."

It was one thing to know something was wrong, but quite another to hear it, Henry realised then. Though he'd thought he was prepared for the worst, a deep wave of sadness welled up in him at the physician's words. Tears threatened and he was too choked up to speak. Which meant it was Brandon who spoke next.

"Both?"

"Both, Your Grace. Your Majesty. I am so sorry."

Henry waved the man away, unable to speak. He didn't need platitudes and condolences. He needed them. His Cata and his Prince. But he couldn't have them. He'd lost them. Both of them.

He'd never see Cata again; never see her play with her auburn hair; never rest his head in her lap; never hold her in his arms. He'd never see her smile as their son called her Mama; never hear her laugh proudly when the boy took his first steps. He'd never take the boy riding, never see him shoot his first arrow; never invest him as the Prince of Wales. He'd never hold him high above his head and present him to the people as their future King.

"Harry?" His sister ventured, moving forward. She laid her hand on his arm. Just like Cata used to do.

Henry felt tears rising at her touch, but he choked them back. Grief could come later. He had duties to perform first.

Wrenching away, he laid his hands flat on the table and tried to clear his head. He owed it to Cata to do this properly.

"Tell the Court…" His voice shook. He swallowed hard and tried again, "Tell the Court the Queen has died in childbirth and the child with her. No need to tell them it was a boy. Declare Court mourning. And send the Princess Mary to Beaulieu. She's too young…too young to be here amongst this grief."

His voice was flat, monotone. The words left a metallic tang in his mouth. He turned for the door.

"I shall withdraw into my chambers. Alone. Pray God I'll find peace there."

"Harry," Mary started. He raised his head to her and she fell back at the look in his eyes.

"_Alone,_ Mary."

She let him go without another word.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Lady Salisbury? Surely the Royal Family should be together in this dark time?"

Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, looked up at the maid who had spoken.

"It is not for us to question, Mistress Alice. The Queen has died in childbirth and the King has deemed Her Highness too young to deal with Court mourning. We are to go to Beaulieu and there's an end to it."

"But Milady, does she know yet? It's been two days. Does she know yet?" Alice glanced towards the door as she spoke.

Before Lady Salisbury could answer, there were unsteady footsteps in the passage outside and a two year old girl with dark blonde hair appeared in the doorway. Seeing Lady Salisbury, she made a beeline for her.

"Lady 'Bury, why packing?" she demanded.

"Your Highness," Lady Salisbury curtsied, "Your Papa has decided you're to move house. To Beaulieu."

"Where?"

"To Beaulieu, Your Highness. It's a nice place. You'll like it. I promise. Come, we'd better get you ready." Lady Salisbury held out her hand and Princess Mary took it trustingly. She didn't make a fuss as they dressed her and prepared her to go out. In fact, it wasn't until they were halfway outside that she suddenly stopped and pulled back.

"Papa? No say Papa goodbye?"

Lady Salisbury knelt down to the toddler's height, "Papa's busy, Your Highness. I wrote him a letter to say we'd gone rather than take you to say goodbye. But don't worry, he loves you. He'll miss you very much. He'll send for you just as soon as he possibly can. I promise."

"Well, Mama? Say Mama goodbye?"

Lady Salisbury's heart clenched. She'd hoped to get Mary to Beaulieu before telling her what had happened. Now it seemed that she was not to get that respite. She reached out a hand to the child.

"Your Highness. I'm going to tell you something and I need you to be a big brave girl. You have to listen to me. You can't see your Mama. I know you want to see her, but I'm afraid she's gone to sleep."

"Wake up. Say goodbye."

Mary's piping voice was insistent. Lady Salisbury ached to hold her in comfort, or at least to be having this conversation somewhere more dignified, more private, than the corner of a stairwell, but, unfortunately, the circumstances did not permit that. All she could do was lay a gentle hand on Mary's tiny shoulder and soften her voice as she gazed into the child's wide blue eyes, "I know you want to, Your Highness. Believe me, I would if I could. I would if I could. But we can't. Your Mama's gone to sleep because she's gone to live with God and His angels. Once you're sleeping God's sleep, then no one can wake you up. I'm sorry."

"But I want see Mama! Want see Mama! Want see Mama!"

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Lady Salisbury repeated, hoping to soothe her charge. To no avail. Mary's eyes filled with tears and she began to lash out at the walls and people around her.

"Want see Mama! Want see Mama!"

Lady Salisbury made her decision. Protocol be damned! She had to get this child to Beaulieu so she could soothe her and settle her properly.

She swept the screaming Princess up into her arms and hung on to her grimly. Ignoring the ear-splitting shrieks of, "Mama! Mama! Want Mama!", that were reverberating off the walls around her, she hurried down the stairwell and out into the courtyard.

As Mary, still kicking and screaming, was bundled into the carriage and borne off to Beaulieu, the skies clouded over and it began to rain in torrents. It was as though, upon hearing its little Princess's pain, the whole of England had decided to give full rein to the grief it felt for Catalina de Aragón. For its Queen Katherine, Queen of Hearts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"We'll lay the Queen in state at Baynard's Castle, then process her to Worcester Cathedral on the first of next month, if that suits Your Highness," Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and Earl Marshal of England, glanced up at the young Duchess of Suffolk.

She nodded, "Of course."

"You are sure that this is what His Majesty would want? For Her Majesty to be interred with His Highness, Prince Arthur?"

"His Majesty is too prostrate with grief to be able to worry himself over the details of the funeral, my Lord Norfolk. He has left such matters to me and I can think of nothing more fitting than laying the Queen to rest beside the husband of her youth. In any case, if my brother the King so chooses, he too can be interred at Worcester when the time comes."

The young Duchess spoke with a determination that could not be gainsaid. The Earl Marshal bowed his head.

"As you wish, My Lady. I assume you will be Chief Mourner?"

"Aye, Thomas, I will. It is my duty, both as Katherine's sister and as Her Majesty's loyal subject, to see her interred as befits a Queen. Lady Willoughby shall carry my train."

"Is that wise, Your Highness? Forgive me, but Lady Willoughby is a Spaniard born. There are many English ladies of noble birth who would relish the opportunity to do their Queen this final service."

"You forget, Lord Norfolk, that just as Lady Willoughby is a Spaniard born, so too was our noble Queen. Lady Willoughby was both a loyal servant and a trusted friend to Her Majesty from the earliest days of their youth. I can think of no one more fitting to fulfill the office than Lady Wiloughby."

With that, Mary Brandon _nee _Tudor rose to her feet.

"T think that is all, My Lord. I will leave the further details to you. After all, you have my mother's funeral before you as a precedent, so I do not see how you can go wrong."

"Madam," Thomas Howard bowed his head and then the Duchess of Suffolk swept from the chamber.

"My Lady Suffolk."

The courteous whispers of acknowledgement were muted. Everywhere she looked, there was black. Black and grey and ashen, sleepless faces. It was clear the courtiers were reeling. Their Queen had gone and she'd taken their sense of security with her.

Not for the first time, Mary wished her brother were here; that he hadn't withdrawn into his chambers. He was needed here. Not for his gaiety, but for his ability to lead. If he'd been here, he could have stabilised the Court; let them share in his grief at the same time as he shared in theirs. But he wasn't here and so, as his sister and their Princess; as the premier noblewoman in England, now that Katherine was dead and little Mary had been taken to Beaulieu, it was up to her.

Mary forced a look of calm to her face and clenched her hands inside her sleeves to keep them from trembling as she addressed the crowd. "My Lords, My Ladies. Your concern for us in this time of distress is commendable and I thank you for it. Rest assured, you will all get your chance to say farewell to the Queen. She will be lying in state at Baynard's Castle from tomorrow, now that the embalmers and the waxwork makers have finished their work."

Taking a deep breath, she glanced around the group of people gathered before her. There was not a dry eye in sight. Choking back her own tears, she continued, "Your obvious grief for the Queen is a balm to my wounded soul. It gladdens my heart to know that the woman I loved as my older sister was so dearly loved and will be sorely missed by all of you. Were His Majesty here to see it, I know it would gladden him too."

Seeing her husband at the other end of the Hall, she inclined her head slightly and then started towards him. The crowd parted to let her through and, within moments, she was at his side.

"Charles," She clasped his arm, drawing strength from the warmth of his skin. He lowered his head to kiss her briefly.

"Mary. You have the details sorted?"

"Yes. Katherine's body will begin lying in state tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Baynard's Castle. She'll be buried at Worcester, next to my brother Arthur."

"Next to Arthur? Does Henry know? Are you sure he'd approve?"

"No. But since he won't see me and would never talk about death even if he would, I'm doing the best I can. What's good enough to be the resting place of the future King of England strikes me as fitting for the final resting place of the Queen Consort who came to England to be his bride first."

"Very well. You're the Princess. You were trained in ritual and statecraft. I was not," Charles bent and kissed Mary again, before saying "I went to your brother's rooms again."

"Did he see you?"

"What do you think?"

Mary sighed. "I wish he wouldn't do this. I wish he wouldn't lock himself away like this."

She swung her husband around so that he could see the courtiers for himself.

"They need him, Charles. They're reeling and they need their King."

"We all do, Mary. We all do," Charles sighed regretfully, "And we shall have him. Sooner or later, we shall have him. Sooner or later, he'll pull himself around. I promise. But in the meantime, we shall simply have to make do with the Duchess of Suffolk."

Mary managed a wan smile at his flattery.

"Stop it, Charles!" she chided, batting his shoulder playfully as they rounded the corner. Even as she did so, however, she was grateful for the brief moment of levity. As much as she grieved for Katherine, she needed to have something to distract her from her next duty. The duty of acting as Chief Mourner at her Queen's funeral.

* * *

The fog pressed thick and close about the funeral cortege, muffling the hoof beats. The Londoners had to strain to see the bier as it was borne past them. Nevertheless, every man, woman and child in the crowd behaved with the solemnity that befitted the occasion. None jeered or catcalled. Every man doffed his cap. Many of the women and children stretched costly lighted tapers – far more costly than they could really afford- out to the procession, or else fell to their knees, weeping openly, as it passed.

However, Queen Katherine wasn't just being mourned in the streets of London. Up in the great rooms of Greenwich Palace, her former husband was also watching the procession pass by. He hadn't intended to; hadn't wanted to put himself through the pain, but he hadn't been able to keep away. His conscience, the sense that Cata deserved to have him pay his respects, had driven him to the window.

He saw his sister ride by, her young back drawn up ramrod straight as she tried to put on a strong façade for the people. Sweet Mary. What would he have done without her in these last two weeks? Henry didn't know, but he didn't have time to consider it.

As Cata's bier reached the section of street directly beneath his window, the sun suddenly broke through the fog. The burst of golden light illuminated the body on top of the bier, accentuating the richness of her scarlet robes-of-state, sparking off the jewel-encrusted rings, brooches and necklaces draped over the figure's slender fingers, full breasts and graceful neck. It caught her flaming auburn hair and made it flame up, bright as the fires she had loved to sit beside.

What impressed Henry most, though, was the way the light caught the golden circlet mounted on her brow. It made it gleam, encircled Cata in a ring of golden light. It was almost as though God had already made her an angel.

"Take her then. Take her and take care of her. For she of all people deserves to be with you. She was the sweetest, most caring, most beautiful..," Henry couldn't go on. His tears threatened to choke him and all he could do was emit a strangled gasp that sounded something like, "Cata! Cata!"

He sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. "Why, Lord, why? Why her? Why him? Why them? Don't I deserve them? Don't I deserve a son? A Queen and a son? Why did you take them from me? Why?"

The tears started flowing and this time he didn't hold them back. Instead, he let himself howl for his Queen, howl out the pain that had lodged itself so deeply within his broken heart.

* * *

"No! No! No sleep! No!"

Lady Salisbury heard her young charge's screams long before the maid appeared in the doorway.

"She won't sleep?"

"No, My Lady Salisbury. The Princess is exhausted, but she's fighting it."

"Again," Lady Salisbury sighed. The maid nodded.

"If I might be so bold, Lady Salisbury?"

"Go on."

"The Princess needs her father. If we could only persuade the King to pay her a visit, things might be easier. Her Highness isn't just grieving for her mother, it seems to me. She's aching for her father too. I don't think she knows he loves her anymore."

Exhaling slowly, Lady Salisbury got to her feet.

"Your concern does you credit, Joanna. But the King is the King. We cannot presume to tell His Majesty what to do."

"But then, is there anything we can do?" Joanna's face fell, even as she saw the sense in the older woman's words. Lady Salisbury laid a gentle hand on the young woman's shoulder.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Suffolk is His Majesty's sister and, next to Queen Katherine, the woman he loves most in England. There is a chance that she may be able to exert some influence on him. Let me settle the Princess and then I will write to her."

"Yes, Lady Salisbury," Joanna curtsied and drew back to let the older woman past as she went to try to soothe the Princess.

Inside the opulent bedchamber clustered four or five young women, all desperately trying to calm the screaming toddler who lay in their midst.

"No sleep! No! Want Papa! He no make me sleep! Papa! Papa!"

"Leave us, Ladies," Lady Salisbury's voice rang out hard over the Princess's screams. Looking relieved, the bevy dropped the requisite curtsies, murmured, "Your Highness. Lady Salisbury," and disappeared through the open door. Lady Salisbury sat down on the end of the bed and drew the sobbing child on to her lap.

"Come, Your Highness, what's all this noise, hmm? Princesses aren't supposed to behave like this, are they?"

"I no want sleep, 'Bury," Exhausted by her fit of temper and reassured by the warmth of her governess's lap, Mary appeared reasonably calm, but Lady Salisbury knew it wouldn't last. They'd been over this ground too many times in recent weeks for her to be taken in by this lull in the storm.

"I know, Your Highness, but you have to sleep. Otherwise you won't be able to enjoy tomorrow."

"But I no want sleep! Want Papa," Mary cried, "Want Papa!"

"Papa's not here, Princess. I'm trying to get him to come and visit you, but he hasn't come yet. He'll come soon, though. I promise. And he'll come all the sooner if you're a good girl and get some sleep. Hush now. Hush."

"No. Papa! Papa!"

"You can't have Papa. You've got to sleep."

All of a sudden, the little girl broke in the face of her governess's implacable reasoning.

"I no want sleep! I scared, 'Bury!"

"Your Highness, there's nothing to be scared of. Sleeping's lovely and we all need it. I do too, you know."

"Is! What if I no wake? Mama no wake, what if I no wake?"

The innocent question sent a knife through Lady Salisbury's heart. "Oh Your Highness!"

"Mama no wake. What if I no wake?" Mary repeated. Lady Salisbury pulled the child even closer.

"You will," she promised, "You will. Mama's an angel now. She'll watch over you and make sure you do. And I'll wake you myself. Go to sleep now and I'll wake you in the morning."

"Promise?" Mary's candid eyes were begging.

"On England, Harry and St George," Lady Salisbury kissed her charge's brow and tucked the warm swans-down covers around her. She rose to leave, but Mary clung to her.

"Stay. Hold," she demanded.

And Lady Salisbury couldn't resist. Even though it went against all her principles of child-rearing, she lay down upon Mary's luxurious four-poster bed, fully clothed, and drew the little girl into her arms. They stayed like that until Mary had fallen asleep.

Once she had, Lady Salisbury kissed her one last time, then slowly rose and untangled herself. Going to her own room, she fetched parchment, quill and ink and began to write a letter to the Duchess of Suffolk.

_"Your Grace,_

_Firstly, let me extend the deepest condolences from all of us here at Beaulieu over the loss of Queen Katherine._

_I realise that now, with Her Majesty scarcely cold and indeed not yet buried, is perhaps not the most fitting time to ask this, but I don't know who else to turn to._

_ The fact of the matter is, Her Highness Princess Mary is suffering greatly from the loss of her mother. She is either incredibly meek and quiet or else impossibly wild. While I am sure that these violent mood swings are largely caused by grief, I feel that the fact that His Majesty hasn't visited her here at Beaulieu has only exacerbated the matter._

_Please, Your Grace, I beg of you, if you can, use your influence with His Majesty and try to persuade him to visit the Princess here. I feel sure that a visit from the King would help Her Highness settle into her new home._

_A thousand thank yous and, once again, I offer my deepest condolences over the loss of Queen Katherine._

_I remain, Madam,_

_Your devoted Servant,_

_Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury."_

When she had finished, Lady Salisbury let the letter dry, then lit a candle and sealed it with dripping wax. Calling a page, she handed him the letter.

"For the Duchess of Suffolk. She'll be somewhere on route to Worcester, so leave as soon as it's light."

The lad nodded, bowed and was gone. Lady Salisbury watched him go and then turned to her embroidery, always keeping an ear open for the muffled cries that heralded Princess Mary's awakening from a nightmare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**February 1519**

"It can't go on like this!" Mary Brandon sighed, "It's been three months, Charles. We can't go on like this! We can't!" She flapped a letter in her husband's face, "Lady Salisbury says the Princess is getting more and more impossible. Ti's the third letter I've had like that this month. She needs her father, Charles. Mary needs her father and England needs her King!"

"I know. I know. But what do you want me to do about it?" Charles sighed, "Henry is the King, Mary. If he wants to stay in seclusion, then there's nothing anyone can do."

"You could try, Charles. You're his best friend."

"You're his sister. What makes you think I could do a better job than you could?"

"I'm a woman. He won't speak to me the way he would to another man. Particularly not since I'm his baby sister. Please, Charles."

Winding herself around him, she stroked his hair.

"There's no one who knows how to talk to Harry better than you. And think of our little boy. Little Hal. Would you want to let him live with the pain of not knowing his father?"

"No! Of course not!" Charles exclaimed, his heart clenching at the thought of no longer being a part of his son's life. Mary wound his dark locks around her fingers.

"I thought not. So don't let Mary go through it either. Go and talk Henry out of his seclusion. Please."

"Oh, very well. I'll try. I'll try."

Extricating himself from her hold, he sighed, kissed her swiftly, slipped from the room and made his way to King Henry's apartments.

The young page, Francis Weston was just exiting as he reached them. Charles stopped the boy with a quiet hand on his shoulder.

"How is he, Francis?"

"No better, no worse, My Lord Suffolk," Francis murmured. Sighing, Charles nodded and stepped past him into the darkened room, trying not to reel back at the musty smell that permeated the air.

"Harry? Your Majesty?"

"I said I didn't want to be disturbed, Charles." Henry's voice was heavy. Charles hesitated, but knew he had to press forward. He owed it to Mary – both Marys- and to Henry."

"I know, Henry. I know."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm your friend. Because I don't like seeing you hurt. Because I want to help you."

Charles stepped forward, laying a daring hand on his friend's shoulder. To his relief, Henry didn't pull away. Instead he simply sighed bitterly.

"You have, Charles. You and Mary both. More than you know."

A silence stretched between the two men for a moment. Suddenly, Henry burst out, "Is there a curse on the Tudors, Charles, because we won our throne through conquest and not through blood? Are we doomed to lose our Queens in childbed forever?"

"No, Henry no! You mustn't think that! You mustn't!"

"My father lost my mother. I lost Cata. And my son. There must be…"

"It was bad luck, Henry, that's all. Sheer bad luck. Look, I know how you feel. I know it feels like the end of the world; like she's taken your youth with her; like you'll never be happy again. But it'll pass. Trust me, it'll pass."

"How do you…? That's it exactly. How do you know?"

At Henry's words, Charles sighed with relief, releasing a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. He couldn't let Henry consider the fact that he might have been cursed. He couldn't. Henry was so superstitious. Who knew where he might let the thought lead him?

He said nothing of his thoughts to Henry, of course. All he said was, "I lost my Anne, remember? I lost my Anne just like you lost the Queen. I felt like you, Harry. I thought I'd never be happy again. But things changed. I stopped grieving like a husband and a father and let myself grieve like the young man I knew I still was. And then I met Mary. Your sister. I met her and I loved her. She made me happy again, Harry. She made me happy again and now we're married and have our beautiful children. So you're not cursed, Harry. You're not. You'll have a boy to be your Prince yet. You'll have him with a woman you love, I promise. Just because you lost Cata doesn't mean you can't have a boy with a woman you love. You just have to give it time."

"What changed you, Charles? What changed things for you?" Henry's voice was hollow. Charles took a deep breath. He knew he was taking a gamble with his next words, knew Mary would hate him for this whatever the result, but he had no choice. He'd baited the hook and now he had to reel it in.

"I grieved like a man. I let myself stop being a husband and a father and just became a man. That's what you need to do, Harry. Stop being a King. Stop being Cata's husband. Stop being Mary's father. Just be Harry. Just Harry."

"How? After everything that's happened, Charles, how?"

"Would you like me to show you?"

Henry fell silent and Charles held his breath, straining his eyes through the darkness to see how his friend's face changed.

Finally, Henry nodded.

* * *

"You're doing what?! Taking him drinking?! Whoring?! No! Oh no, Charles, I forbid it! I forbid it, do you hear me?!" Mary Brandon screeched at her husband.

"I don't know what you're complaining about! At least he's out of his room!"

"You were supposed to persuade him to visit the Princess, not agree to take him whoring! What about his role as her father or her King? What about his duties to England?"

"His sense of duty is what got us into this mess in the first place. It's crushing him, Mary, can't you see that?"

"And getting him drunk is supposed to help?!"

"Yes! It'll help him let go. You're a woman; I wouldn't expect you to understand. Just trust me. Trust me to know what's best for your brother."

Charles shoved past Mary. She sprang ahead of him and slammed the door.

"You're not doing it, Charles! I forbid it! I forbid it!"

"Who are you to forbid me anything?!"

"I'm the King of England's sister!"

"Not anymore! You're not my Princess anymore! You're my wife! You're my wife and by God you will stand aside. Now!"

Before he really knew what he was doing, Charles had raised his arm to strike Mary. Stunned, she shrank back slightly, just enough for him to force her out of his way.

He flung himself down the passage, still seething; still shaking with anger. What was he doing? He'd never threatened Mary like that before. Never. He had to be going mad.

"_All the more reason to get Harry back to himself by whatever means necessary," _he thought, "_All the more reason. I'm not sure how much more of this our marriage can take."_

* * *

"_Marianne,_

_I am coming over to Paris on State business as soon as the sailing season starts. When I return to England, I shall be taking you back to England with me to join your cousin Isabel in the Duchess of Suffolk's household. The Duchess has asked for you specially, so I hope you won't be silly about coming back. Anne shall stay in France for a while longer, since she seems to be doing well for herself there._

_Your future Mistress asks to be remembered to you both and I ask you also to remind Anne always of her duty to the Boleyns and Howards. Remember yours too daughter and behave accordingly._

_God be with you."_

Mary Boleyn's hand clenched on the letter she was reading. Her heart sped up and she had to fight to control her breathing. She'd known this day would come, had almost been expecting it, but she still couldn't quite believe the words she was reading. She was to go back to England. After all these years in France, she was to go back to England.

"Marie? Are you all right?" Her best friend, Jeannette, called to her softly.

The question snapped Mary out of her reverie. Anne! She had to know! Mary was leaving her behind; it was only fair to give her due warning. Ignoring Jeannette, she whirled round and fled down the corridor.

"Marie? Ça va?" Jeannette called after her, but Mary was gone. She raced away down the passages, heedless of decorum as she sought her younger sister.

Suddenly, the door of a nearby schoolroom swung open and Anne came out, laughing and teasing a younger girl over her shoulder.

Despite the situation, Mary couldn't help but scold her younger sister as she pulled her aside.

"How many times must I tell you this, Annie? You mustn't speak to Her Highness like that! Renee might only be nine years old, but she's a Princess of France! You'd do well to remember it."

"Agh, Marie, leave it. you're not my Maman. You're my sister, ma soeur. When we're in private, Renee wants to be my friend, not Renee, file de France. As long as she wants that, I'll treat her like it, d'accord?"

Mary opened her mouth to argue further, but Anne merely shrugged elegantly and changed the subject with a grace that was far beyond her years.

"Now, I assume you didn't come looking for me to scold me on my conduct towards the Princess Renee. What's going on?"

"Papa's written from London. He's coming over at the beginning of the sailing season and he'll take me back with him. I'm to serve our Dowager Queen in her new position as Duchess of Suffolk."

"Marie?"

"Oui. Reine Marie."

"Et moi aussi? Moi aussi? Marie, moi aussi?"

As she often did when she was distressed, Anne lapsed into French. Mary glanced down at her sister, suddenly realising what a child she still was. She was happy here in Fontainebleu; Paris was more of a home to her than England was. It was hardly surprising. Anne had only been seven when they'd come to France with Dowager Queen Mary. She scarcely remembered England.

Gently Mary shook her head.

"Non, Anna, non. Tu non."

Once she had soothed Anne enough for the latter to listen to English, she went on, unfolding the letter and rereading the words she'd already burned into her memory aloud to her sister. When she'd finished, she looked back down into Anne's dark eyes, offering her a reassuring smile.

"See? You are to stay here, Annie."

Relief flickered in Anne's eyes before she managed to pull herself together. The Boleyn sisters shared a long glance before Anne whispered, "I'll miss you, Marie."

It wasn't the warmest of sentiments, but Mary knew Anne meant what she said. She was happy to be staying in France, but given the gap between them and the absence of their blood mother, Mary was the closest thing to a mother that Anne had ever known.

Without another word, she closed the gap between them and pulled the younger girl into her arms. Despite herself, Anne returned the embrace. For a few moments, the girls let themselves forget that their worlds were changing around them. For a few moments, they were nothing more than what God had made them in the first place. Sisters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It was already getting dark when there came a quiet knock on Henry's door.

He jerked his head at the page who stood behind him, "Get it."

"Yes, Sire," the boy nodded, leaving his place to open the door. Charles stood behind it. he dismissed the page with a simple wave, "Out. I'll take care of His Majesty."

The page looked quickly at Henry, who nodded approval. The boy bowed silently, then vanished. As the door shut behind him, Charles took over, fastening Henry's dark cloak about his shoulders.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

But Henry didn't sound ready. He sounded more unsure of himself than Charles had ever known him. daringly heedless of protocol, he clapped his friend heartily on the back.

"Don't worry. The girls are clean and of high birth – as high as you'll get in the profession, anyway. And everyone goes by a false name. No one need know you're the King, not if you don't want them to. It's only a bit of harmless fun."

"Fun you indulge in?" Henry's voice was sharp. Mary was his treasure; the last of his family. If Charles was unfaithful to her -!

"Not since I met and married your sister," Charles lied smoothly. He'd seen the cloud of anger pass over Henry's face and knew well enough to head it off quickly. At his words, Henry relaxed and even managed a smile as Charles led him from the room down the twisting passageway to the back stable yard where their horses stood waiting.

It was but a short ride to the building that Charles had in mind. Upon reaching it, he tossed a nearby boy the reins and signalled to Henry to do the same. Then he turned to another and called, "Here, Will, look sharp and tell Madam Freeman that Master Lisle's here and that he's brought a friend. John. John…"

"Richmond," Henry supplied, as Charles cast hurriedly about for a name. Charles nodded, "Richmond."

"Yes, Master Lisle," Will tugged his forelock and dashed inside. Henry and Charles followed more sedately, so that, by the time they entered, a buxom woman with luxuriously chestnut hair was already shouldering her way towards them.

"Master Lisle," she curtsied, "How wonderful to see you again. It's such a pity that your affairs keep you away for so long at a time."

"A great pity, Madam Freeman," Charles breathed, lifting the woman's hand with practiced ease. Henry frowned as his best friend transformed into such a practised charmer, but, at that precise moment, Madam Freeman noticed that he was still standing alone.

"Ah, forgive me, Master Richmond. I hear we need a gentle one for you, yes?"

Without giving Henry a chance to respond, she turned, clapping her hands, "Tilda. Take care of Master Richmond for me."

A young girl; a slender willow of a thing with a mass of tumbling blonde curls, moved forward.

"Of course, Madam Grace. If you'll follow me, Sir?"

Henry cast a glance back at Charles who nodded, "Go. I'll wait here, John."

Fearing for his image, Henry had no choice but to follow Tilda. However, once they were away from Madam Freeman's eagle eye, she softened.

"First time out, Sir? Don't worry, nerves hit them all in one way or another. We can take as much time as you like. Just lie back on the bed, have a glass of wine and then, when you're ready, I'll show you a few tricks that will work on any girl, no matter who she is."

Henry did as he was told, feeling a strange relief as the weight of his titles was lifted from his shoulders. He didn't have to be King Henry here. In fact he didn't even have to be Henry, which meant he wouldn't be betraying Cata's memory by what he was about to do. He could just be John. Ordinary John looking to assuage his ordinary desires.

He kept telling himself that, with the result that, when Tilda began to stroke him in all the right places, it seemed natural to him to respond in the ordinary way.

* * *

It seemed to Henry later that his night with Tilda had been a dream, a dream he longed to recapture but couldn't.

Now that he was out of his rooms, duty overtook him once more. His ministers swarmed about him, begging for his input on this treatise or that law or some proposed Bill for Parliament. Fools. Couldn't they manage without him for just a little bit longer? Didn't they realise he had other matters to attend to?

Like the blonde in Mary's ladies, for instance. He liked her. He liked her because she reminded him of Cata, in the way that she was so quietly spoken, but thankfully she wasn't like Cata to look at. No. she was like Tilda to look at. If it hadn't been for the obvious difference in their status, they would have been able to pass as twins. They had the same slender figure, the same big blue eyes, the same mass of blonde curls. The same ones his mother had had too.

Of course he wouldn't lie with this girl. No. Cata was barely cold in her grave. It would be treading on her memory. Tilda hadn't been, of course, because he hadn't been himself then. He'd been John Richmond and no one had known he was the King, but this girl would be different. She'd know he was the King. So he couldn't sleep with her. And he wouldn't. But he would enjoy her company. Cata wouldn't begrudge him that, would she? Of course she wouldn't. after all, it wasn't as if he was in love with this girl, not the way he'd been in love with her. No. he just wanted to enjoy the girl's company a little, as friends. That was nothing wrong in that, was there?

* * *

Mary knew her brother was infatuated with Bessie Blount. She knew he was also trying to assuage his conscience because of his grief for Catalina, but she knew his desires would win out in the end and he'd start courting Bessie.

He didn't say anything. Of course not. But he didn't have to. The way his eyes kept lingering on the girl was enough. She was just waiting for him to ask her name.

So why, when the question finally came, did it feel like something momentous was about to happen? As though it was such a threat to her place at his side as his hostess?

"Sister. That blonde girl amongst your ladies, the quiet one. What's her name?"

"Bessie, Bessie Blount," Mary choked out the name, desperately trying to hide the fact that the syllables were leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She had to force her face to remain blank as she watched her brother as he rose, walked over to Bessie and bent to whisper something in her ear.

She saw Bessie nod, rise and follow him out of the room. She saw the way her cheeks were tinged pink with pleasure when the two of them came back into the room and the way her brother walked with a slightly jauntier step.

He bent over her hand and kissed it, "Farewell, Sister. I must take my leave. Matters of State detain me."

She nodded, and let him go, her mind whirling. There was no doubt about it. Whatever Charles had undertaken with Henry that one night had driven him straight into Bessie's arms. Mary only hoped the matter wouldn't spiral out of control.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Bessie tumbled into her family's apartments, almost shouting with glee.

"Cecily! Cecily!"

"What is it, Beth?" Her older sister appeared from the other room, frowning slightly at the open excitement in Bessie's eyes.

"Bessie. I'm Bessie now, Cecily."

"Not to me, you're not," Cecily murmured, flicking her eyes downward in a stab of regret. If only their mother were here. She'd have been able to temper Beth's vivacity. For all she was three years older, Cecily was often overwhelmed by her sister's forceful personality. Beth might only be eighteen, but she knew her own mind, that much was sure.

Giving herself a little shake, Cecily looked up and smiled, "Anyway, you had something to tell me. What is it?"

"I'm to ride out with His Majesty tomorrow."

"You're to – Beth!"

This time, Bessie didn't complain about the use of the childhood nickname. Instead, she laughed in triumph.

"Yes, me. He asked me. Not his sister, but me."

"You'll have to look your best," Cecily, ever the pragmatic one of the sisters, went straight down to details, "Have you thought what you'll wear?"

"My cornflower blue velvet with the swansdown cape?"

"Yes, maybe. Blue suits you. And we can put Mama's sapphire around your neck."

"Hmm," Bessie was saved from answering properly by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Cecily called. The door opened a crack and their cousin Mark put his head round it.

"I heard our Bessie's been noticed. Are you planning for the ride?"

"Yes," Cecily answered, before Bessie could do so."

"Good, then my errand isn't in vain. Father will want to see the Blounts do as well as he can out of this. If you get the opportunity, give this to the King," Mark produced a rosary of polished mahogany from his pocket, "It was our grandmother's and the King likes family loyalty. He attaches a great deal to sentimentality. Giving him this will show that the Blounts are willing to sacrifice their own family treasures in order to succour him in his grief. And even if the opportunity doesn't arise, you're to wear it on your belt by your hunting flask. He'll appreciate the show of your piety. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mark," Bessie sighed, taking the rosary from her cousin. He raised his eyebrows at her reluctance.

"I thought you'd be happier than that. I'm trying to help you."

"Who says I want your help? The King noticed me, not the Blounts. I'm not a child any more. I'll handle him, thank you."

"What do you mean, 'handle him'? What do you want out of this?" Mark started at the ferocity in Bessie's tone. She shot him a winsome smile.

"I don't know yet. Let me start the game before you ask me what the end moves will be, Mark. Now, I must go, or Duchess Mary will miss me."

She moved the door, brushed her cousin's cheek with her lips as she passed him and hurried off, leaving her cousin and sister exchanging worried glances.

* * *

Bessie was already mounted when the King came hurrying into sight. He stopped in his tracks and bowed to her.

"Mistress Blount. Forgive me for having kept you waiting. Such behaviour is unpardonable in a gentleman."

"But not in a King," Bessie replied, "I quite understand that matters of State must come before something as trivial as honouring an unworthy lady with Your Majesty's attentions."

"Oh, not unworthy. Never unworthy!" the King hastened to assure her, kissing her hand briefly before swinging himself into the saddle, "What do you think of my Perseus?" he added, a note of pride creeping into his voice as he gathered up the black's reins.

"A fitting foil for so golden a King," Bessie murmured, tipping her hat back half an inch so that her golden curls, so unlike the late Queen's, shone visibly in the early spring sunshine.

A weak smile tugged at the King's lips, "You think me golden, Mistress Blount?"

"As the noonday sun, Sire," she replied, glancing at him as she allowed her mount to break into an easy loping trot, "Has Your Majesty given any thought as to where we might go today?"

He started at the direct question, then recovered, "The lake, perhaps?"

"Of course."

Bessie spurred her bay forward and the King fell into line beside her. The two of them rode along in silence for a while before he finally broke it.

"You ride better than Cata did, Mistress Blount. She wouldn't have dared canter along as you are doing. It wouldn't have been fitting for a Queen."

Pain sparked in his eyes and, to her surprise, Bessie found her heart melting at the lost note in his voice. Thanking heaven for Mark, she pulled the rosary from her belt.

"I know the Queen was a wonderful woman, Sire. My family and I say prayers for her soul every day."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I use this rosary. It was my grandmother's."

He half-reached for the beads and Bessie dropped them into his palm, "Take it, Your Majesty."

"But…it was your grandmother's."

"She left it to me in her will, so it is mine to do with as I please," Bessie lied, continuing "I'm giving it to you. I would be honoured to think that my humble gift will be giving such a great King a little relief from his pain," Bessie closed the King's fingers gently over the rosary, letting her hand linger on his for just a moment. He raised his eyes to hers.

"You have a noble heart, Mistress Blount."

"A heart always at Your Majesty's command," Bessie whispered, somehow instinctively knowing what to say. A heartbeat passed. Two. The King leaned from his saddle. Bessie felt his hand on her cheek and let her eyelids flicker shut. His lips brushed hers, their touch light as a feather's.

"Thank you…Bessie."

* * *

The weeks passed and Bessie found herself spending more and more time with the King. He called to take her riding on an almost daily basis. They dined together; played cards together in the evenings. It built up gradually, but one day, Bessie realised that she was spending more time with the King than anyone else was; even his sister and brother-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk.

Which meant that it was only a matter of time before the family found out. Mark and Cecily had known from the beginning, of course, but now her father and uncle realised that their little girl was no longer the helpless little flower that they thought she was.

One morning, they called her to her father's rooms.

"Father. Uncle," Bessie curtsied. Her father nodded in acknowledgement.

"Elizabeth."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. It appears you've been spending quite some time with the King recently."

Bessie shrugged, "His Majesty asks for me and I obey."

"As you should. How far has he taken things? I know he is still grieving the loss of the Queen, but King or not, he is a man and many a lesser man takes a mistress in such circumstances."

"Not far, Sir. But I am not ready for him to take them further yet."

"Not ready?" Her father's voice sharpened, "What do you mean, you are not ready?"

"His Majesty does not look to me for everything yet. I need him to do that before I am ready."

"Look to you for everything! Good God, girl, are you playing for the throne?!"

Bessie hesitated. The truth was, though she might have been at first, now she genuinely just wanted to help the King through his grief. The last few weeks in his company had been more wonderful than Bessie had ever dared hope they would be. But she couldn't tell the men in front of her that. They expected more of her. Closing her eyes and steeling her heart against the pang of guilt that stabbed at her, she kept her voice as steady as she could as she answered, "Not necessarily the throne, Father, but England has no Queen, so I do not see why I should not be at His Majesty's side just as well as any other woman."

"Nor do I," he murmured, then sighed, "Very well, Elizabeth. You seem to be handling the matter well enough for the moment. His Majesty seems happy enough with you, so I do not see any reason to change things for now, but if we're no further forward soon, things may be different. Is that clear?"

"As crystal, though we will be," Bessie assured him, summoning a confidence she did not feel.

"Very well, you may go, Elizabeth."

Bessie curtsied, then ran out of the room and changed her gown before riding to the lake to meet the King.

He was ahead of her and turned at the sound of her hoof beats.

"Bessie," he greeted, attempting to smile at the sight of her, but not quite managing it. Groaning inwardly as the realisation that he was in one of his more morose moods dawned on her, Bessie drew rein and slid from the saddle.

"Henry!" She caught his hand and tugged him towards the lake with her, "Come in with me."

"What?!" He started. Bessie nodded.

"It's May. Surely it'll be cold."

"Cold but not too cold. Oh come on, Henry! Please! Come in with me!" she begged him, flashing him his favourite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry.

"Katherine wouldn't like it. She'd say it was beneath me as a King and a widower."

Stifling a sigh, Bessie splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholy like this.

"Katherine loved you, Henry. And you loved her. I'm not denying that. But that doesn't mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Katherine would want you to be happy. So come on. Don't just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?"

"Are you my sweetheart, Bessie?" His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Bessie just wanted to kiss the smile back on to his face, but forced herself to chuckle lowly, caress his shoulder and then reach up and ruffle his hair.

"You know I am, Henry. You know I am. Now catch me."

Risking everything, she backed teasingly away from him and raced back into the shallows. To her delight, he chased after her. Spinning around, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it in his direction.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then she was rewarded with the sound of something she hadn't heard before. The great bellow of his laughter.

"Oh, Bessie, you are the best girl in England! Oh that I could have you at my side every day!"

Bessie's heart skipped a beat. If he was saying stuff like that, then she ruled him as completely as she could ever hope to, given that she could never be his anointed Queen. She swung round to him.

"Oh, but Henry, you can. You are the King. You have only to command and I would have to obey."

"But I don't want to command. I want you to come to me of your own free will," he whispered.

Bessie pretended to hesitate, but her heart was singing and it seemed natural to her to say, "My will and my heart are one and my heart is yours."

It seemed natural to her let him sweep her up and canter her back to the palace in his arms, abandoning her horse there by the lakeside; to enter his rooms beside him as though her rightful place was on his arm; natural to yield her most precious possession to him in one heated flood of bloody passion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Come, Mary. Say your farewells and we'll be off to catch the tide," Thomas Boleyn spoke gently to his eldest daughter. More gently than he normally did. Mary was fully aware of that fact, but knew exactly why he was playing the doting father, delighted to be taking his daughter home. He was in public, in front of King Francis, Queen Claude and the Duchess of Savoy, who had Annie beside her.

Still, though Mary raised her eyebrows inwardly at her father's acting, she dared not challenge his authority so flagrantly, so she merely nodded, murmuring docilely, "Yes, Papa."

She turned to the King, Queen and Duchess, curtsying swiftly. King Francis raised her up, whispered a few words of farewell into her ear, waving away her attempts at an eloquent thank you and then nudged her in the direction of her younger sister.

"Annie," Mary breathed, embracing her younger sister, "Be a brave girl."

"When am I not?" Anne asked, cocking an eyebrow. Mary chuckled.

"True. But still, you're the only Boleyn left here now. Stay strong. Stay strong and do us proud, hmm? I'll be thinking of you."

"And I of you, Marie. Take care. Take care and Godspeed, ma soeur."

"Godspeed and God be with you, Marie," The Duchess echoed Anne's words, placing a hand on the young woman's shoulder. Releasing her sister, Mary dipped down into a final curtsy.

"Thank you, Your Highness. God be with you."

Then she took her father's arm and backed out of the room.

Anne watched the two of them leave, feeling tears prick her eyelids. Why did Marie have to leave her? Couldn't they go on being the Boleyn Sisters, as they always had? How was she supposed to cope now that the last of her family had left her?

"Anna, Ca-va?" Her Mistress touched her shoulder, "Renee is asking for you."

At the woids, Anne gave herself a little shake. Of course she'd cope. Wasn't she Anne Boleyn? Duchess Marguerite's bold little Boleynette? Besides, she was twelve years old. Practically a woman. She didn't need a mother any more. Especially not when Madame Marguerite took such good care of her and Princess Renee thought of her so highly.

Drawing herself up, Anne nodded, "Oui, Madame. Ca va."

With the words, she shut off the part of her that was still little English Annie and gave herself up to being French.

Gave herself up to being Anna.

* * *

Mary's heart was hammering as she knocked on the door of the Duchess of Suffolk's apartments. A page in dark blue and soft grey livery opened it, "Yes, Mistress?"

"I am Mistress Marie – I mean, Mistress Mary Boleyn. I am to join Her Grace's household this morning," she explained, sensing the blood rush to her cheeks as she mangled the introduction. Thankfully, the lad only inclined his head and stepped back, "We've been expecting you."

Mary felt at home as soon as she set foot in the Duchess's apartments. They weren't as opulent as they used to be; now that she wasn't Queen, they weren't the best in the palace, but they were still opulent enough to denote her status. They still had her spoilt pet dogs scampering around, making an absolute cacophony. Many of her old friends from when she'd first gone to France still sat sewing in the windows, laughing quietly with one another.

One of them, Sarah, caught sight of her and sprang up. "Mary! You're back at last!"

"I am. Papa brought me back. He thinks it's high time James and I were betrothed. I mean, we are both quite old enough to, in his words, 'consent to and seal the union'."

A stab of guilt went through her as she mocked her father, but it quickly dissipated as Sarah laughed and threaded their arms together.

"And so you are! Now come. I'd better present you to Her Grace so we can have you sworn in and then we'll be free to catch up properly."

* * *

The Duchess greeted Mary almost as warmly as Sarah had done and, within hours, she had regained her footing within the bevy of ladies as though she had never been away. Which meant it was only natural that she should be at her mistress's shoulder when, as the group headed outside to hawk in the gardens, they crossed paths with another woman.

The woman was slender and blue-eyed, with a mass of honeyed curls tumbling down her back. She wore an expensive gown of cornflower blue silk and carried herself nobly. Only the hint of arrogance in her eyes and the scarcity of ladies trailing behind her belied the fact that she wasn't as high ranking as Duchess Mary.

The Duchess's entire body tautened. "Mistress Blount," she acknowledged icily.

There was a fraction's silence and then Mistress Blount dipped into the merest hint of a curtsy, "My Lady Suffolk."

Her head was still up; her eyes still locked with the Duchess's. There was no submission or servility anywhere in her posture or indeed in her demeanour at all. The two women stared one another down for a few more seconds before Mistress Blount snapped her fingers.

"Come," She instructed her ladies, sweeping past the King's sister as though she owned the palace. Colouring, the ladies swept down to the floor in respect for Duchess Mary's higher rank and then followed. Mary glanced between the rapidly vanishing quintet and her fuming mistress, then, correctly supposing she wasn't going to be able to ask the Duchess, dropped back to talk to Sarah.

"Who was that?"

"That was Elizabeth 'Bessie' Blount," Sarah hissed, spitting out the nickname as though it were belladonna, "You replaced her in Her Grace's Household, as it turns out."

"Mistress Blount was in Her Grace's household? They don't appear to get on," Mary murmured, a hint of question in her voice. Sarah growled.

"And they shouldn't. Mistress Blount is the King's latest paramour. Now, I'm not saying it's not within His Majesty's rights to take a mistress, but honestly, did it have to be Mistress Blount? She's become insufferable. Four months she's been at his side. A mere four months and she already thinks herself a Queen. Just because she's lucky enough to have been granted a few ladies of her own, she thinks we should all be bending the knee to her."

Sarah was about to say more when the Duchess called, "Mistress Boleyn?"

"Yes, Your Grace?" Mary hurried forward.

"You've just come from France. Does King Francis keep a Mistress?"

"Your Grace, it is the right of every King to keep a Mistress."

"Aye, I know that well enough. I'm asking; does King Francis exercise that right?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I see. And how does the chosen lady conduct herself in Queen Claude's presence?"

"My Lady, they barely meet."

"But when they do?"

"Well then, Madam, Queen Claude is of course paid the full respect that is due to her as Queen of France. King Francis insists upon it."

"Francis insists upon it, does he?" A look black as thunder rolled across Mary Brandon's pretty features, "Francis insists upon it, yet my brother, the greater King by far, is content to let his spoilt teenage whore act as though she runs the Court."

There was nothing Mary could say to that. Instead she merely curtsied silently. The Duchess peered down at her for a few seconds, before sighing loudly.

"Still, my brother's whims are not your fault, Mistress Boleyn. Run and fetch my hawk, would you?"

Relieved to have got away so lightly – the old Mary Tudor would have thrown something at her for being the bearer of bad news – Mary straightened up, murmured "Madam," and ran, all the time wondering whether she could have answered any differently. But no, she couldn't have. She had been as diplomatic as she could while still telling the truth. Wasn't one supposed to tell the truth to one's monarchs, if they demanded it?

* * *

Though Bessie had been going towards her own rooms, she changed tack and headed for the King's apartments. How could Mary Brandon think she could get away with calling her 'Mistress Blount' and forcing her to curtsy to her? How could she? Hadn't Bessie done more for the King than his sister had? Wasn't she the one whom he loved with all his heart; the one he'd claimed he wanted at his side every day? Of course she was. So shouldn't Mary be the one showing her respect? Of course she should.

Bessie stormed through the doors, slamming them behind her. A multitude of pages and serving boys looked at her in shock.

"Out! All of you, Out!" she screamed.

Startled into obedience, they ran.

Hearing the kerfuffle, Henry came out of his bedroom, alarmed when, eyes pooling with tears, Bessie flung herself into his arms.

"I can't do this anymore! I can't!"

"Bessie, what's wrong? Darling?"

He held her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. Gradually, Bessie allowed herself to be comforted. At last, she looked up at him with all the injured innocence she could muster.

"It's not fair, Henry. It's not fair!"

"What's not fair? Bessie, I can't help you unless you talk to me. What's not fair?"

"Your sister," Bessie gulped at last."

"What about my sister?"

"She still treats me as though I'm in her household. She still expects me to defer to her!"

"Well, she is my sister. She is a former Queen and a Princess."

"Not anymore! She's just a Duchess now. Besides, she betrayed you! I've never betrayed you! Never!"

"I know you haven't. I know."

"So make her treat me with respect! Make her curtsy to me! Please!"

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Bessie pressed on, "I love you, Henry. I love you just as much as Katherine ever did. You know that. You know I came to you of my own free will, whereas she married you for politics as much as for love. And Mary always showed Katherine respect, so why should I be any different? Tell your sister to show me respect. Please?"

Henry began to try to explain that Katherine had been a Queen; a daughter of Kings and that, besides, the circumstances had been different, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do it. As he hesitated, Cata's voice flashed into his head, "_She's playing you, Harry. Can't you see she's playing you?"_

He shook his head firmly. _"Shut up!"_ he growled inwardly, _"Shut up! Can't you see she's crying over this? I won't have her crying over this! When you died, I swore I'd never make a woman cry. After all, I never made you cry, did I? No. it was you who made me cry when you left me. Bessie's made me happy again. I owe her something for that. Besides, she's right, Mary and Charles did betray me. I've been too soft on them, as you pointed out to me, if I remember correctly. This will be a good lesson in humility for them both."_

Stroking Bessie's hair, he led her to the nearest chair and sank down on to it, pulling her into his lap.

"It's all right, Bessie. It's all right. You don't have to curtsy to Mary. You're right, she should be the one curtsying to you. I'll speak to her. In fact, I'll speak to everyone. We'll have everyone calling you, 'My Lady Blount' and bowing to you before the week's out. Everyone will be bowing to you and you won't have to curtsy to anyone. Not even Mary."

"Do you promise?"

Her voice was damp, strangled. He nodded.

"I promise. I give you my word that I'll arrange it today. Does that please you, sweetheart?"

Her answer was a wordless kiss; the sweetest they had ever shared.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Henry, you can't be serious! Me, curtsy to her? To that – that upstart?!" Mary Brandon stared at her brother, incredulous with anger, "She's a nobody!"

"Nevertheless, Mary, you will show her respect. I demand it."

"I'm your sister!"

"And still my subject. Bessie will be 'My Lady Blount' to everyone before the day is out and you, as the second Lady in England, will be the one to set an example."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll count yourself lucky if you're still a Duchess at the end of the week."

"You wouldn't! You wouldn't possibly hold Charles responsible? You know no man can control me, least of all him! Why on Earth would you strip him…Unless…Do you still hold our marriage against us? After all these years?"

"I suggest you don't chance what I would and would not do. Just do as you're told. I'm the King of England and I will be obeyed, do you hear?"

Mary began to retort, but bit the words back as the herald struck his staff against the floor, "The Lady Blount to see you, Your Majesty."

Instantly, the ire melted from Henry's face as though it were made of wax. He crossed the room in two strides and caught Bessie's hand in his before she had even begun to curtsy.

"Bessie, darling."

His voice was soft, tender. As tender as it had once been when he spoke to Mary. Or Katherine, his real Queen. It nearly made Mary sick to see him fawning over the young harlot as solicitously as one might a Princess of the Blood. Yet worse was to come.

"Sire," Bessie breathed, "I had hoped to catch you alone, but if you are occupied…"

"No, sweetheart, I'm not. Mary was just leaving, weren't you?"

The dismissal was final. Mary had no choice but to abase herself before the two of them.

"Your Majesty. My Lady Blount."

The words clumped in her throat, threatening to make her ill. Oh the shame of it! the shame that she, a former Queen of France and Princess of England and Duchess of Suffolk besides, should have to bend the knee to a mere Knight's daughter! Resentment, so long smouldering in her heart, sparked and burst into flame. In a matter of moments, she determined that, should it ever be possible, she would oust Elizabeth Blount from her brother's heart, no matter what it cost her.

* * *

Unbeknown to Mary, Bessie was struggling with a dilemma of her own. She loved the King, she really did, and she loved the way he treated her; as though she were the only girl in the world, but she was realising now that her carefree behaviour had produced consequences far greater and weightier than she had ever imagined it might.

She was kicking herself. She could try to pass it off as youthful ignorance, but, whatever people might think of her, Bessie knew she was intelligent enough to know that, at eighteen, one really ought to know better. Especially given what had happened to Queen Katherine less than a year past. Who knew how the King would react? Oh, he'd sworn to be Bessie's Sir Loyal Heart forever, to love her come Hell or High Water, but hadn't he sworn that to the Queen? Hadn't she died in childbed? Wouldn't that be the only thing on his mind, if she, Bessie, told him? Of course it would! So she couldn't tell him! She couldn't!

"Bessie. Are you all right?"

God, he was so sweet; so eager to check on her welfare. He had noticed her distraction and touched her cheek to recall her to him. Bessie turned her head to kiss his cheek.

"Of course I am, Henry. Forgive me. I was just thinking of the Midsummer's masque tonight, that's all."

"Ah yes! I shall be King of Summer and you shall be my Princess! Princess Elizabeth of the Roses," His brow cleared at her words. Soon he was lost in detailing the masque; the clothes they would wear; the lines they would speak, even the dance the two of them would dance together to bring summer to the Court and therefore to England. before long, he had pulled her up to rehearse it one last time and Bessie, relieved to have averted his attention so easily, was more than happy to go with him.

* * *

"You have to tell him. Beth, you have to tell him!" Cecily insisted, "You're not doing yourself any favours by refusing to tell him. At the moment, you might be able to fob him off with pleas of illness and your courses, but that won't last forever. Eventually, he's going to insist on bedding you again and that might harm the child you're carrying."

"I don't care! I don't care! I'll take the risk!" Bessie sobbed, feeling more like a child than ever as she buried her face in her hands. Cecily knelt down beside her, gripping her shoulders.

"Elizabeth Blount, you listen to me. You can't do that. You can't do that, not anymore."

"Why not? For God's Sake, why not?"

"Because you're not a child anymore. You're nineteen on your next birthday and a mother to be. The child in your belly is a responsibility, one you will have to bear, whether you like it or not. And part of that responsibility is telling the King. Do you understand?"

"But I don't want to!"

"It's not a question of 'I want'. It's a question of necessity. The King must know you are carrying his child and there's an end to it. Now, I'll go as far as to say that if you'd rather I told him, then I will, but…"

"No," Bessie shook her head, "He barely knows you. he'll take it better from me. but I would like Mark to be there. I'm going to do this, then I'm not going to do it alone."

"All right. All right. I'll tell Mark to come and find you and the two of you can tell the King. Hmm?"

Bessie nodded slowly. Cecily breathed a sigh of relief and stood up. "Good girl. Good girl. You'll see; everything will be much easier once you've told him."

"_Will it?" _Bessie wondered, but there was no time to argue. Cecily, ever the prim yet pragmatic one of the two, was already gone.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Mark squeezed her hand gently. She shook her head, "No."

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. Cecily will have my head if I don't."

"Father will have your head if you do. If he finds out you've slept with the King and not taken precautions…"

"He's going to find out eventually. One way or the other. I can't hide forever. If we can get Henry on our side, then I might be able to brazen the whole thing out. After all, there's no shame in being the King's mistress, is there? Especially when he's not married."

"If," Mark repeated anxiously. But there was no time to say any more, for there were footsteps in the passage outside and Bessie's page was crying, "His Majesty the King."

Dazedly, Bessie rose to her feet and dropped like a stone into a curtsy. The King held out a hand to her, but she was blind to it. She remained in her supplicant position until the strain of holding it got to her and brought awkward tears welling up in her eyes.

"Bessie? Bessie, what is it, darling?"

His Majesty knelt down beside her, holding out his arms to her. She felt him embrace her and her defences broke.

"I'm sorry! I should have been more careful! Please don't be angry!"

"I could never be angry with you, sweetheart. Never. I promise. Just tell me what's wrong."

Oh, he was saying all the right things, but who knew if he'd stick to them once he found out? Where would fine words get her if, in a few months' time, she was swollen and heavy and unable to show her face at Court for fear of disgrace? If only he hadn't lost the Queen in childbed! If only it hadn't made him so mercurial! She wouldn't be so scared.

As it was, however, all she could do was cling to him as a drowning man would cling to a rope thrown from a ship. "Please don't be angry," she repeated.

"Why would I be angry? What can you possibly have done that would make me angry with you?"

"I'm pregnant!"

Suddenly the dreaded words were out, blurted out in a strangled rush of desperation. Their effect on the King was immediate. His body went taut against her and his hands stilled in her hair.

"What did you just say?" he whispered.

"I'm pregnant," Bessie repeated into his chest, silently begging Mark to help her. As though he could sense her predicament, Mark broke the silence, injecting an extra note of gaiety into his voice.

"Isn't that wonderful news? Congratulations, Your Majesty. May I be the first to congratulate you on the prospect of a healthy son? And my best to you too, of course, dear cousin."

"Of course you must, Master Blount. And you must take the very best care of your cousin now. Nothing could be more important than the child in her belly, do you hear?"

"Yes, Sire. You may count on me to do my level best, My Lord."

"I know I can. And you must give Bessie everything her heart desires. Money no object. Her…My…Our future happiness depends upon it. This child must be swaddled in love and care before it even leaves Bessie's womb. Understood?"

"Yes, Sire," Mark nodded, clearly thrilled at how well the King was taking the news. Bessie, on the other hand, felt her heart sink. The King appeared to be solicitous, true, but his concern had been general; focused on the child's welfare and not hers. Not once, though she was still in his arms, had he bent his head and asked about how she felt about becoming a mother before she herself had completed a score of years on God's Earth. Nor had he told her how happy she'd made him, as she'd always imagined her husband would do when she shared the news of her pregnancy with him. true, it could just be because Mark was in the room, but the presence of others had never stopped him declaring his feelings before. Bessie feared that this deliberate control of his emotions could be the beginning of the King's withdrawal from her arms. Still, he hadn't acted angry, so perhaps she didn't have to start worrying just yet. Even if it had taken him a heartbeat too long to answer Mark. She leaned back against him and tried to take heart from the way his arms automatically tightened around her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Henry didn't say anything, but Charles wasn't blind. He could see for himself that the Blount girl was no longer in quite as much favour as she used to be. Henry used to practically be joined at the hip with the girl, but now it was possible to speak to him alone; to take him riding for an afternoon without her tagging along.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he would come and join Charles in flouting convention to dine with Mary in her confinement and the three of them would sit and laugh and talk about their days in the nursery at Eltham, just the way they used to. The way they used to before everything had happened.

So it was hardly a surprise when the Blount girl's belly started to swell. No wonder Henry had been so distant towards her. He would be worried that he'd lose her in childbed just like he lost the Queen. Still, that child was his. It could be his son, his heir. So why wasn't he making moves to marry her? Why hadn't he even acknowledged the pregnancy? With the way he'd doted on her all through the spring and early summer, Charles wouldn't have put it past him. Yet he wasn't. Instead, he was withdrawing into himself, becoming quieter and quieter as Bessie's pregnancy became more and more pronounced.

The fact that Henry didn't mention Bessie's pregnancy meant that Charles couldn't either. In fact, it wasn't until Bessie's own pregnancy came to term that September and Henry congratulated him on having expanded his family yet again, with another daughter this time, that Charles dared to lean on the years of friendship and honesty between them and say, "Thank You, Your Majesty. As you may imagine, Mary and I are delighted by Lady Eleanor's safe arrival in the world. May I in turn, offer my humblest congratulations to you?"

"Congratulations? Whatever for?" Henry sounded nonplussed. Baffled, Charles took a step back.

"Well, the Lady Blount, of course. The child must be yours. After all, you've scarcely been apart since the spring."

"Oh, that, of course. Thank you,"

"If I might be so bold…You don't sound especially pleased, Your Majesty. Surely a child at this time is a blessing; a fresh start?"

Henry's eyes darkened momentarily and he flashed them to Charles's face before sliding his gaze away. Charles reached a hand towards him inquiringly, "Your Majesty?"

"If it were legitimate, yes. But even if it is a boy, that child is a bastard. It could never take my throne. What good is that for England? What good is that for me?"

"It's not too late. You could marry her. Marry her now and the child would still be born in wedlock, which is the important part. You could have your Prince, Sire. You and the Lady Blount could be King Henry and Queen Elizabeth, just like your parents were and, like them, you could have your Prince Arthur within the year."

For a moment, Henry's face lit with hope; then, mere instants later, he shook his head, "I can't."

He turned away. "I can't," he repeated.

"Why not?"

It was too direct a question to put to one's King, really, but Charles sensed that this wasn't the time for protocol. Watching, he saw how Henry's shoulders tensed, then slumped as he exhaled.

"Because I'd curse her if I did. I'd curse her. Our child would be born dead, I know it. Or else I'd lose her. As a punishment for not staying true to Cata's memory. Or else because my father took the throne by force and not by right of blood. No. I can't do that to her, not to my beautiful Bessie. I can't."

"But now? What if the child lives? Will you at least acknowledge it?"

"Oh yes. I owe her that much, at least. And I'll see her taken care of. God, if I could be sure that the child would live; that they'd both live, I'd marry her tomorrow. But I don't and I can't make the same mistake twice. I did it to Cata and I won't do it to Bessie. I won't do it to another woman I love. I won't."

"Harry…" Charles started, then sighed. He could see it was useless. Henry was determined to be melancholy tonight. He would just have to hope that, the next time Harry fell for a girl, he was able to put aside his worries for long enough to do his duty and beget a legitimate heir on her.

* * *

"So Harry doesn't feel comfortable, now that his harlot's pregnant?" Mary Brandon chuckled, "How ironic, given that he's the one who got her into that state in the first place."

Her voice was biting. Charles rested a hand on her stomach where it was still plump from little Nell's birth, rubbing it lightly as he answered, "No, he he's not, but I'll thank you not to be so open in your glee, Madam. He is your brother after all and he hasn't rescinded his orders that we treat the Lady Blount with respect yet. Besides which, need I remind you that we all know what happened the last time Harry was this insecure? We need to organise a distraction for him before we lose him all over again."

"True," Mary mused, shifting Nell in her arms and already running over the ladies present at Court in her mind's eye. They needed one who was pretty enough to tempt her brother, vivacious enough to hold his interest, clever enough to, unlike the Blount girl, not get herself with child, at least not for the moment, and humble enough not to try to take over the reins at Court as Bessie Blount had done. Unsurprisingly, there weren't that many candidates, especially not since Mary only felt safe enough to entrust the job to one of the girls in her own household. Preferably one of the ones who'd already proved their loyalty when they served her during her months in France. Sarah, perhaps? No, she was too outspoken. Henry would have loved her a year or two ago, but not now, not when he was so insecure. He'd need a girl he could play the Knight in shining armour with. Susanna? No, too old, too like Cata. She'd bring back painful memories. For everyone.

Mary was so lost in her own thoughts that she scarcely even noticed when Charles, chuckling at the calculating smirk on her lips, plucked Nell from her arms, laid her back in the bassinet and kissed them both as he took his leave. Nor did she notice, when, several minutes later, Nell started squalling with hunger.

As such, she didn't call for her to be taken back to her wet-nurse, so the poor babe was positively howling by the time one of the maids screwed up the courage to enter Mary's private chamber to fetch her without permission.

The door opened a crack, and Mary Boleyn looked in, "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I heard Lady Eleanor crying and I wondered if you might like me to take her back to her wet-nurse?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, Marie, thank you," Mary answered, waving her in and addressing her by her French name, as indeed, everyone in the Duchess's household had taken to doing in an attempt to keep the two of them apart.

Following Marie with her eyes as she scooped Nell up and crossed the room to the door that led into the nursery suite, trying in vain to soothe the ravenous child as she did so, Mary smiled wanly as she realised what a faithful servant Marie was becoming. For all that she was slightly different because of her French education, she was still a trusted friend and a part of Mary's household that she wouldn't have known how to do without.

And then it crashed over her like a thunderbolt. Marie might just be able to serve her in another way as well.

"Sarah, tell Marie I need to talk to her, would you? And shut the door behind her and make sure we're not disturbed, understand?"

"Yes, Madam," Sarah curtsied and was gone. A few minutes later, Marie, having returned from the nursery suite, was curtsying beside her, "You wanted to see me, Madam?"

"Yes. I…I...," To her horror, Mary found that this was more difficult than she had thought it would be. The words stuck in her throat and in the end, she had to tackle the matter by way of another route.

"You know Queen Katherine's memorial service is coming up in November, don't you?"

"Yes, My Lady."

"Well, I don't know how much of it you heard about, being in France as you were, but the King took the Queen's passing extremely hard. He withdrew into his rooms for months. I don't want that to happen again. I don't think the country could handle it."

"I'll pray that it doesn't, then, Madam."

"I want more than your prayers, Marie. I want your help in ensuring that it doesn't."

"My help?" Marie looked at her, wide-eyed and Mary had to bite down on a surge of anger. Was Marie really that obtuse? Was she really going to make her spell it out? Sarah would have understood what her mistress was asking long ago.

However, Harry liked his girls slightly naïve and trusting, so Mary swallowed her ire and kept her voice steady as she answered, "Yes. The King is going to need good friends about him during this difficult time," She paused to let her words sink in, then continued, lying skilfully as she went on, "I had hoped the Lady Blount would be able to support His Majesty over the next few months, but sadly, they appear to have parted ways recently. Can I trust you to offer my brother your friendship in the place of hers?"

The mention of Bessie had done its work. Understanding flashed across Marie's face, before, her features blank, she sank to the floor in a graceful curtsy, "If that is what Your Grace requires of me," she murmured.

Despite herself, Mary found herself admiring the younger girl's composure. What Mary had just asked of her – to put herself in the King's way and basically hire herself out to him as a whore, though hopefully without getting herself with child – could not be a pleasant thought for any girl who hoped to make a good marriage. Yet Marie was taking the news and agreeing to it almost without a pause for thought. Clearly, she was a better courtier than she sometimes let on. Maybe this wouldn't go as badly as she, Mary, had feared it might.

* * *

Of course, Marie had her own thoughts on what her mistress had just asked of her. It wasn't that she had anything against helping the King through his grief, of course not. She was loyal to him and would do anything she could help him. However, if she'd been taught one thing by her mother and father before she went to France, it was that a girl should never surrender her virtue before marriage, no matter who asked it of her. She hadn't given in to King Francis when he tried to court her and take it and she wouldn't give in to King Henry either. No matter what. Her maidenhood was her husband's to take and she'd make sure that, whoever he was, he was the one to take it. Which meant she'd have to go in to this game with her eyes wide open and be very careful about how far she let the King go.

Oh, it was a dangerous game she was playing, Marie knew, but it was the only game she could play. She had no choice. If the King made advances to her – advances beyond friendship, she'd have to refuse him. Refuse him and then try to deal with whatever consequences came her way.

* * *

On the other side of the palace, George Cavendish was hastening towards his master's office, an open letter clutched in his hand.

"Sir?" He asked, as he reached the ajar door and pushed it further open. Wolsey looked up.

"George? What is it? I'm trying to do the accounts for this past quarter. I thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed?"

"I know, Sir, and I apologise, but this has just come off the boat from France and I felt you ought to know immediately."

So saying, George pushed the missive he carried across the desk. His master picked it up and scanned it, his double chins quivering gently as his beady eyes flicked across the page.

When he had finished it, he remained silent for a few moments, rubbing his chin – one of them, anyway- across his open palm thoughtfully.

"So," he said at last, "The Duke of Alençon has died in a hunting accident."

George nodded, though kept silent. He knew the prodigious brain under that Cardinal's hat would be working furiously and he had no desire to spoil his master's train of thought.

Sure enough, within a few moments, Wolsey stood up and began to pace the room, thinking aloud.

"This leaves King Francis's sister Marguerite a widow. A beautiful widow, they say. a beautiful widow only a year younger than His Majesty."

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking, Sir?" George ventured.

"Well, the Queen's passing has left us without a European alliance. I don't want to trouble the King in his time of grief, but I think it would be prudent to forge another as soon as possible, don't you?"

"And you don't think another Spanish alliance is the way to go?" George asked, earning himself a sharp look from his master.

"After all the pain the Spanish have caused His Majesty recently? No, I think not. Let's not risk opening old wounds. A French alliance is the way to go, now that it is possible."

For a moment, Wolsey paused in his pacing, steepling his fingers together against his temples as he mused on the best way to approach this delicate matter.

"We must write to King Francis as soon as we can, expressing our condolences upon the death of his brother in law."

"Yes, Sir. Should we also broach the idea that we might be open to an Anglo-French alliance?"

Wolsey hesitated for a moment, before nodding, "Why not? Nothing could happen officially, of course. It would not be seemly. Nonetheless, it never hurts to be beforehand. Yes. Do it. I tell you, George, if we handle this right, we could have a new Queen this time next year and a Prince in the cradle within twelve months of that."

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, what are you waiting for then, you cretin?! Get to work! Draft me a letter I can send to Paris! Quickly!"

"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir!" Flushing as his master's volatile temper flared up at his slow reactions, George mumbled an apology as he hastily backed out of the room.

He left a very pensive master behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"_Dearest Annie, _

_First, please convey my heartfelt condolences to Duchess Marguerite over the death of Duke Charles. I know they never perhaps loved each other as much as King Henry and Queen Katherine did, but I also know how much kindness and mutual respect there was between them. I can only guess at how much she must be reeling from his death. As indeed am I. I remember how kind he was to both of us when were arrived on French shores with the old Queen Mary, two shell-shocked and motherless little English girls. I beg you, let Marguerite know that I am praying both for his soul and for her at this difficult time."_

Here, Marie paused, wondering whether to tell her little sister what Duchess Mary had requested of her. Annie was only twelve after all. Then again, twelve was legal womanhood. And Annie had grown up at the French Court, in the service of one of its most glittering personages. It was hard to believe that she wouldn't already know about this sort of thing. Perhaps, strange though it seemed, it was time Marie started entrusting confidences of this sort to her little sister.

Uncertainly, she dipped her pen back into her ink and laid her nib to the parchment once more.

"_As for me, everything is going well here in England. I'm rising ever higher in Duchess Mary's favour. So much so, in fact, that she recently put her trust in me and gave me a commission. I am to try and win His Majesty's confidence and distract him during the preparations for Queen Katherine's memorial service, so as to prevent him from becoming overwhelmed with grief once more. _

_I will let you know if I am successful. But please, say nothing of this in your letters to Father. He will find out soon enough and I would rather do without his interference for as long as I can._

_Anyway, time grows short, so I send my blessings, little sister, and ask that you fill me in on all the news from France just as soon as ever you can. Greet Jeannette for me._

_God Bless, Annie. I remain, as ever,_

_Your sister Marie"_

Signing, drying and sealing the letter, Marie went down to the postmaster's office.

"For my sister, Master Cornwalsh, but keep it separate from the family packet, will you?" she requested, pressing a gold half-angel into his hand and turning on her sweetest smile. He melted instantly.

"But of course, Mistress Boleyn," he assured her, taking the sheaf of parchment from her. Marie smiled in relief, "Thank you."

Then she turned and ran back up the stairs, back up to her duties in the Duchess's household.

* * *

A few days later, she sat sewing and gossiping with Sarah, when their mistress called, "Sarah, Marie. I plan to hold a masked ball to celebrate Michelmas. The Virtues and the Vices. Sarah, you can play Perseverance and Marie, I'd like you to play Gentleness."

Marie lifted her head and sought her mistress's eyes. A current of understanding passed between them.

"As Your Grace wishes," she murmured.

* * *

The weeks passed and all of a sudden, the day came. Marie found herself, not only resplendent in a gown of ivory-coloured silk, but standing on the highest tier of a painted wooden castle, symbolically "trapped" by her mistress, herself dressed in scarlet and black satin in her role as Lady Cruelty.

There was a flourish of trumpets and a dozen masked knights, led by Sir Loyalty and Sir Ardent Desire, rushed into the hall.

One of them, Sir Ardent Desire, put up his sword.

"My Lady Vices, I desire – nay I demand – that you release these, your gentle prisoners."

"As Lady Cruelty, I feel I may withhold their delights a little longer", Duchess Mary laughed.

"Aye, for myself alone," Susanna, or rather, Lady Selfishness, added.

"As Lady Scorn, I laugh at your desires," Jane Parker improvised.

The audience howled with laughter. Sir Ardent Desire's eyes flashed.

"My Lady, I think you will find that desire overcomes all," he countered, before clenching his hand on the hilt of his wooden sword and raising the blade above his head.

"Attack!" he yelled.

Amid howls of merriment, the knights rapidly scaled the battlements. As befitted a masque, the Vices yielded after only the most token of resistance, though Marie did see Lady Cruelty being led off by Sir Ardent Desire, so presumably she would be dancing later, having been granted clemency for yielding.

As Marie watched her go, however, she was recalled to her part in the masque by Sir Loyalty's hand closing over her wrist.

"Gentleness, you are my prisoner now," he breathed.

Though Marie recognised His Majesty's voice instantly, she didn't let it show, only half-curtsied and let him lead her from the battlements, face impassive.

No words passed between them as they stepped together through the first part of the salladre, but when they switched partners as the dance demanded, Marie felt his eyes following her.

And when, released from Sir Francis Weston's – Sir Courage's – hold, she took his hand once more, she could tell he was barely able to restrain his curiosity.

"Who are you?" he murmured, "Have I seen you before, Lady Gentleness?"

Marie hesitated for just a beat or two – to steel herself for what she was about to do just as much as to heighten his curiosity. Then she let her eyes flash – just for an instant – up to his face.

"I'm Marie," she whispered, "Marie Boleyn."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**November 10, 1519**

Solemn bells were tolling, marking the gravity of the occasion; telling London that, on this day a year ago, England's beloved Queen Katherine had died in childbirth and, along with her stillborn son, been taken up to meet her Maker in Heaven.

Closeted in the relative privacy of the Chapel Royal at Greenwich, Henry heard them tolling and felt his grief welling up afresh. It might have been a year, but today, the wound still felt as raw and vulnerable as that very first day, the day Dr Linacre had come out of Cata's lying-in chamber with his eyes so grave and his voice so heavy.

Giving in to his pain, Henry sank to his knees, sensing the entire Court do the same behind him. His younger sister, so recently returned to Court from her confinement and her trip to Suffolk, slid her hand daringly into his, vainly trying to offer some comfort as Archbishop Warham started the Mass, _"In nomine Patris, Filli et Spiritus Sancti…"_

Henry echoed his words automatically, fighting the urge to turn and seek solace in his sister's grieving eyes. Or in those of her confidante, Mistress Marie. The one who had played Gentleness in that masque a few weeks ago. She had been everywhere Henry turned in the days since then, and although he usually hated feeling pressed in by anyone, he couldn't feel that way about Mistress Marie. He couldn't. She was too quiet and gentle to make anyone angry at her for anything. One could even say that she embodied Gentleness.

Suddenly, Henry shook his head. What was he doing? This was no way to be thinking, not at Cata's memorial service. Today, today of all days, ought to be her day! Her day and no one else's!

Angry at himself now, Henry determinedly pushed away the thoughts that were betraying Cata's memory and forced himself to pay attention to the service.

* * *

Far away, in Beaulieu's own little chapel, the three year old Princess Mary also knelt before the altar, praying for her mother. Unlike her father, however, she wasn't using the Latin condoned by His Holiness. She was using her own words.

"Dear God, please. Please. Give Mama back. Give Mama back and I be good, I promise."

A hand touched her shoulder, "Come, Your Highness. You've prayed enough. The Lord will have heard your prayers by now. It's time for you to eat."

Mary flinched away, "No! No!," she whispered, careful to keep her voice low, as everyone had to do in church. She couldn't go now. She couldn't! She was just asking God for the most important thing, to give them her Mama back, so that Papa would be happy again and she could be his Princess again. Or_ a_ Mama, at least.

But Lady Bury was spoiling it all. She kept disturbing Mary and now God would never hear her. It wasn't fair! Mary hadn't disturbed Lady Bury when she was praying. She hadn't! So why did Lady Bury do it, when she always told Mary that interrupting was rude? Mary was the Princess, after all.

Lady Bury's voice came again, "Come, Princess Mary."

Mary pulled away, wishing she could tell Lady Bury to go away. Then somewhere, as if in answer to her prayer, came a faint memory of Papa shouting at someone because they hadn't done what they were told. She couldn't shout, of course, not in church, but she could make her voice angry like his.

"I say no, Lady Bury. Leave."

Her governess's hand left her shoulder and Mary couldn't help turning to see how she had reacted. The woman had fallen back a step or two, surprised at the testiness in her charge's voice.

"Leave," Mary repeated, smiling inside as she watched her governess nod slowly, beckon the other ladies and leave the chapel. She felt proud of herself for finally managing to remind them who was the Princess and who had to do what they were told.

But pride wasn't allowed, it wasn't nice, and God would never hear her prayers if she wasn't nice, so Mary felt guilty. Kneeling back down, she let her lips move almost soundlessly, whispering, "I'm sorry, but please. Let Lady Bury realise she not Mama. That she no tell me what I do. And please, help Papa be happy again. Help him find new Mama for me, so he happy and love me like used to."

Mary begged under her breath, hoping against hope that God had heard her. Hoping against hope that she'd have a new Mama soon.

* * *

Unbeknown to Mary, back in London, Cardinal Wolsey was just opening a new missive from the King of France. Scanning it, he let out a satisfied chuckle. In seconds, George Cavendish was at his side.

"Your Eminence?"

"Everything is progressing nicely, George," Wolsey murmured, stroking his ample chin in satisfaction, "Francis has taken the bait, just like I hoped he would. Our Ambassador writes that Francis has told him that an Anglo-French alliance against the Emperor would be much to his liking, and suggests that we send extra envoys to Paris to discuss the broader points of such a treaty, who will then perhaps move on to discussing other, more delicate matters, when the timing is more appropriate."

"Yes, Eminence," George nodded, happy to see his master satisfied for once, "Had you given any thought as to who might sail for France once the weather permits?"

"Once the weather permits? I had thought of sending the Earl of Derby and Sir Thomas Boleyn out together. Whatever my personal feelings about him, there's no denying that Boleyn is a fine statesman and the Earl of Derby is as loyal a servant of the King as any man you'll find anywhere in the country. Draw their credentials up for me, will you?"

"Yes, Sir," George half-bowed and went to leave, but Wolsey called after him, "Wait. I had forgotten. I want young Lord Percy to travel with them."

"Lord Percy?" It wasn't often George Cavendish questioned his master's orders, but he was surprised by these. The lad was only fourteen, after all. Was it really wise to be sending him to France?

"You have a question, George?" Wolsey raised an eyebrow and George coughed hurriedly, "Oh no, Sir, not really. It's just…isn't Lord Percy a little young for a delicate trip of this sort?"

"He's thirteen, George. His father is keen for him to learn some ambassadorial skills. Even with light duties, this trip will be good experience for him. Make sure he is included in the party."

Shrugging, George nodded, "As you wish, Your Eminence."

Bowing, he left the room to fulfil the task his master had set him.

**Havering Palace**

**March 1520**

Bessie Blount was sitting with her sister and maids, quietly sewing at her baby's layette, putting the finishing touches to a tiny embroidered cap, when a sharp pain stabbed at her stomach as something broke inside her.

"Ahh!" she cried out, dropping the embroidery hoop as she doubled over. Cecily was at her side in seconds.

"Beth!" she cried, holding out her hands to her sister and helping her stand as the pain eased.

One glance down at Bessie's skirts, suddenly hanging warm and wet and heavy against the latter's legs, told Cecily all she needed to know.

"Do not be alarmed, ladies," she said steadily, "but I think my sister's time has come."

Behind her, Bessie yelped with both pain and fear, and Cecily knew it was time to get her alone so that she could concentrate her strength on the ordeal she was about to go through.

Wrapping her arm around Bessie's waist, she helped her walk into the birthing chamber and arrange herself comfortably on the birthing bed, calling over her shoulder, "Fetch the midwives, one of you. And someone tell the King. He needs to know of this."

* * *

"What are you doing? Marie, what are you doing?" George walked into his elder sister's room to find her pulling on a riding cape and heading for the door.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to visit the Princess Mary at Beaulieu."

"But…"George stared at her, stunned, "Mary – Marie, what are you doing? You haven't got the King's permission. If he knew you were going to see her -"

"He'll forgive me," Marie answered, feigning a confidence that she did not feel. "He might not be happy at first, but he'll understand that I'm only doing this for him because I care for him and want to see him happy."

"But what if he doesn't? Have you thought of that eventuality, Marie? I know he's been nothing but devoted to you since the Lady Blount went into her confinement, but are you sure you rule him that completely? Are you sure you know how he'll react? The Lady Blount's just gone into labour. What if he decides he needs you here? What am I to say if he asks for you?"

"I leave that to you. But I must go, George. I must. If this child lives, then the King will be family-minded. What better time to bring the Princess Mary back to Court?"

Faced with his older sister's determination, George knew he would lose eventually. Yet he could not help himself.

"Father. Uncle. They won't like you doing this either."

"Which is why I don't want you to tell them where I am until I've gone."

George hesitated. Unexpectedly, Marie came across to him, gripping the tops of his arms in a human vice.

"Please, George! Can't you see I have to go! I have to! Every time I think of that poor girl, alone at Beaulieu, with neither mother nor father…" Marie broke off as her voice trembled. To his astonishment, George saw tears pooling in her eyes. He could gainsay her no longer. Extricating himself from her grip, he took a step back.

"Fine. Go. But on your own head be it."

Marie needed no second urging. She whirled on her heel and was halfway down the staircase before he could say another word.

* * *

Henry sat playing cards with his sister and brother-in-law, when there was an urgent knock on the door.

"Enter!" he called jovially, trumping Charles's seven of diamonds with his Queen of Spades. Mark Blount put his head round the door, "Excuse me for interrupting, Sire, but my cousin Cecily felt you ought to know. Bessie has gone into labour."

"_Bessie has gone into labour._" The words rang in his ears, echoing oddly round his head. he felt the blood drain from his cheeks and his cards slid through his fingers, scattering over the table-top as his grip went slack.

"Harry? Mary ventured, putting her hand out to him. Shaking his head, he pulled away and went to the window, gripping the ledge so tightly that his knuckles went white. He scarcely heard Charles slapping Mark heartily on the back and inviting him to take a cup of ale with them.

This was it. He'd know within days – maybe even hours – whether or not the Tudors truly were cursed. Whether they were forever doomed to lose their women in childbirth or whether there was still some hope for them.

All of a sudden, his lips parted and he found himself praying as he had scarcely ever prayed before, "Please, God, in Your mercy, don't take them away from me. Not them too. They don't deserve to die. Any sin they have committed is through me. They are innocent. Please. Let them live. Haven't we suffered enough? Haven't we paid the price for taking the throne by force? My son, my brother, my mother, my Queen – weren't their lives enough? I beg you, say that they were. Grant Bessie and her child life and repeal our curse. In Your mercy, I beseech you."

"Harry?" Mary repeated, touching his arm again, "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?"

"Marie," Henry spoke the name without quite knowing he was going to, "Get me Mistress Marie."

Reading the pain in his eyes and knowing that only Marie's soft touch and gentle voice would soothe her brother now, Mary nodded and sent a page running to the Boleyn apartments. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, the lad was back…alone.

"Begging Your Graces' pardon, but Mistress Boleyn was nowhere to be found. Her brother said he saw her ride out about half an hour ago, but he has no idea when she'll be back."

"Oh damn her!" Mary swore, "I thought she was reliable!"

Henry felt as though he ought to defend his sweetheart – he had promised to be her Sir Loyalty, after all – but he was feeling let down too. How dare Marie abandon him when he needed her most! How dare she?! After everything he had done for her! How dare she?!

Still, she had, so there was nothing for it but to let Mary take her place at his side; to let her find his hand with hers and grip her soft skin in his rougher skin so tightly that he might have been a drowning man and she his driftwood.

Mary would have protested at the ferocity of her brother's grip, but one look at his ashen face told her protest was futile, so she merely took a deep breath and stood silently beside him, willing him to take some of her strength and use it to get himself through the next few hours.

Locked together like that; like they hadn't been since they were children in the nursery, waiting to hear how their mother fared after giving birth to their sister Katherine, or how their brother Arthur was faring after one of his many illnesses, the Tudor siblings waited for news.

* * *

Marie swung herself off her horse in the courtyard of Beaulieu, pausing only to throw the reins at a passing stable boy and to pull herself together before she swept into the Palace with her head held high. Lady Salisbury, the Princess's governess, rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her. A moment later, much to Marie's surprise, she curtsied.

"Mistress Boleyn."

Marie hesitated, unsure as to how to respond. On the one hand, the fact that Lady Salisbury had acknowledged her, that she knew who she was, meant that the news that she was high in the King's favour had travelled, which might make her job easier. On the other hand, if Lady Salisbury thought she was as arrogant and loose-moraled as the Lady Blount, she might refuse to let her near the Princess Mary, which would mean she'd had a wasted journey.

In the end, Marie decided to use both her influence and her Boleyn charm to her advantage. Sinking into a deep curtsy, a curtsy that acknowledged the other woman's royal heritage, she smiled up at the older woman.

"Lady Salisbury. Good morning. I apologise for disturbing you, but I've just ridden over from the Court at Havering to visit the Princess so that I might tell His Majesty how Her Highness fares."

"You'vc come from Court? To see the Princess Mary?" For a moment, something like incredulous horror flickered across Lady Salisbury's face, but then she collected herself and nodded, "Very well, Mistress Boleyn. You'd better come up to the nursery then, though you'll have to excuse me while I prepare Her Highness to see you. She's not exactly dressed for visitors at the moment."

"That's fine, Lady Salisbury," Marie assured the older woman, and the two of them fell into step beside each other as they walked up to the nursery suite. Once there, Marie hung back, distracting herself with the tapestries in the outer room, while Lady Salisbury disappeared into an inner chamber.

Before long, however, Marie couldn't help but overhear the shrieks of protest that were coming from the other room.

"I no want see her!"

"It's 'I don't want to see her', and I'm afraid you must, Your Highness. As a Princess, you always have to be gracious, no matter how you yourself feel," Lady Salisbury's voice sounded surprisingly tired, as though she had argued this point far too often already. As indeed she probably had, judging by the way the angry roars only got louder.

"No correct me! No! I no have do anything! I Princess! I no have see Miss'es Boleyn if I no want! You not Mama, Lady Bury. You not tell me what I do!"

Lady Salisbury sighed audibly. Unable to help herself, Marie pushed open the door the elder woman had just gone through.

She barely suppressed a gasp at what she saw.

A tiny fair-haired girl was thrashing in Lady Salisbury's arms, kicking wildly as she fought to be free. If Marie hadn't known that this was the Princess Mary, she would never have guessed. The girl's long fair curls were tangled and matted, so much so that they clearly hadn't been brushed for weeks. Her dress of green velvet was crushed and crumpled, with so many stains down it that, in places, it was hard to tell that it was meant to be green at all. Her eyes were swollen with tears and glittering with anger, while her skin was rough, filthy and blotchy, the antithesis of what a Princess's skin should be.

Grateful for her courtier's training, Marie nonetheless managed to keep her face blank as she curtsied low, "My Lady Princess. So you don't want to see me, hmm? That's a shame. I've just come from Court and I was hoping to be able to tell you how your Papa was and maybe even take a message from you to him, if you'd like me to."

Lady Salisbury gasped at the informality of Marie's address, but it worked. Little Mary stilled in her arms, looking across at Marie with a new emotion in her eyes. An emotion that hadn't really been there since her mother died. Curiosity.

"Papa? You tell me about Papa?" she asked. Marie nodded, kneeling down and half-holding out her arms to the little girl, "If you like, Princess."

In seconds, the little girl had flown out of Lady Salisbury's hold and was in Marie's, nestling into her arms trustingly, looking up at her hopefully. Instinctively, Marie closed her hold around the Princess's waist, trying not to show her alarm at how thin she was. Even for a four year old, she was as light as a feather.

Carrying Her Highness over to the window, Marie sat down on the sill and began to tell her an edited version of all that had happened since she had been sent to Beaulieu.

* * *

Almost unable to bear it any longer, almost delirious with pain, Bessie pushed down one last time with a blood-curdling scream. She felt something sort of break inside her and then the child was out of her, slithering out in one great warm, bloody, slimy rush. She held her breath, collapsing with relief when she heard it cough, then start howling energetically. It lived! It lived! She had broken the King's bad luck! It lived! It lived!

"What is it?" She gasped, "Is it a boy? Do I have a boy? The King's boy? The King's acknowledged healthy boy?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The silence in the room was suddenly oppressive. Henry just couldn't bear it any longer. He swung round, "I'm going to see how she is," he gasped, his voice strangled with nerves.

"Henry, wait…"Charles moved as though to intercept him, but at the exact same moment, the door swung open. Cecily Blount stood there, a wide grin on her face.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty. My sister has just given you a healthy boy."

"A boy?" Henry repeated, scarcely able to believe his ears.

"A boy," Cecily confirmed.

"A boy. I have a boy. And he lives?"

"Aye, Sire, he lives. He is likely to do so for some time. Upon my word, I've never seen a child enter the world so healthy or screaming so loudly as my sister's boy did."

Cecily's grin was wide as she spoke, but it widened still further when Henry, his face alight with joy, grabbed her, kissed her rapturously, exclaiming, "Bless you, Mistress Blount! I'll see you rewarded for this!" and then sprinted off in the direction of her sister's rooms.

She glanced at Mark, "Do you think we've won? With the King's boy in Bessie's arms, do you think we've won?"

Her mouthed words were met by a scowl. Grabbing her arm, Mark pulled her out of the room and out of the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk's hearing.

"By no means have we won, you fool! Bessie may have the King's boy, but she's not been around to keep his interest on her. It was cooling even before she went into confinement and Duchess Mary has been taking advantage of the King's solitude to throw Mistress Marie at him left, right and centre and he hasn't exactly been saying no. He's been fawning over her the way he used to fawn over your sister. No, Cecily, this game is not over yet. It's not over until either His Majesty finds a new wife and sires a legitimate Prince of Wales or until he names Bessie's boy his heir. So for Goodness sake, get back to Bessie. Get back to Bessie and try to make sure she doesn't ruin our delicate game with her dratted pride."

Alarmed, Cecily nodded. At the look in her eyes, Mark softened, "You've done well so far, Cecily. Just don't let her ruin it now."

Cecily nodded again. She half-curtsied, then turned and ran.

* * *

"Where is he? Where is my son?" Henry burst into Bessie's apartments, catching her midwives and maids unawares. There was a flurry of shocked curtsies and respectful murmurs, "Your Majesty."

"The Lady Blount is resting," one of the girls ventured, but even as she spoke, Bessie's voice came from the next room, "Oh nonsense, Jane. Let His Majesty come in. Let him see his son."

The bevy parted like the Red Sea at Moses's command. Henry rushed across the room and into Bessie's bedchamber.

She sat up as he came in, sat up and took the child from the cradle next to her bed, holding him out for the King to hold, "Come and meet your son, Henry," she invited.

Faint warning bells rang in Henry's head as Bessie took the liberty of calling him by his Christian name without his permission, but he ignored them, choosing instead to focus on his boy. His boy!

He was perfect. Kicking energetically against his swaddling, he showed Henry a strength that not even little Mary, his sole living child to date, had shown him., His eyes were a vivid blue –as vivid as Bessie's – and his soft downy hair already had the unmistakeable tinge of Tudor copper about it. Henry couldn't take his eyes off him.

"He's wonderful, Bessie, wonderful!" he murmured, awestruck, "What shall we call him?"

"Henry," Bessie's voice came back from the bed so fast that Henry knew she'd been expecting the question, "How could he have any name but his father's?"

"Henry. Henry Fitzroy," Henry murmured, trying it on to the little boy for size, "Yes, I like it. We'll call him Hal for short, like they used to call me Harry."

"He'll be another Bluff King Hal," Bessie breathed, scarcely aware of what she was saying. It took a moment, but when her words pierced the fog of elation that clouded Henrys' brain, he looked sharply at her, "He can't be my heir, Bessie. He'll be brought up with all the honour that befits a King's son, but he can't be my heir. You know that."

"And why not? You're the King! Surely you can designate anyone you wish to be your heir!"

Bessie knew she was pushing her luck, but she couldn't help it. She had Hal to fight for now. Thrusting herself back up on her pillows, she glared at the King. "I gave you a boy, Henry! A beautiful healthy boy! What more can you want of me?! Hal's your eldest son; of course he can be your heir!"

"Not in the eyes of the law!"

"Then marry me! Marry me and gain your heir in the same ceremony! God knows John of Gaunt did it with Katherine Swynford, why can't you do the same with me?!"

"Enough!" Henry roared, startling his son as anger coursed through him. How dare Bessie presume to tell him what to do? He was the King of England! "Enough!"

Suddenly, fear sparked in Bessie's heart. Had she pushed him too far, too fast? She bowed her head silently.

Henry saw her do it and made a colossal effort to pull himself together. She was young. And she'd been through a lot. Of course he'd have to make allowances for her, especially just now. if she was anything like Cata, her emotions would be all over the place after giving birth.

Placing his now crying son back in the bassinet, he offered her a smile, "You've done well, Elizabeth. I'll visit you again later, when you're not so tired. When you're a little more yourself."

"Give me Hal," she begged, holding out her arms for the child, "He's probably hungry."

"Then give him to his wet nurse. It's beneath a King's sweetheart to feed her own child."

He kept his voice steady so as not to upset her and even stroked her hair briefly, "I'll come back later," he promised, before striding from the room.

* * *

Cecily saw the King leaving her sister's rooms and quickened her pace, hoping to waylay him. Too late. He was gone. And by the set of his shoulders, he wasn't best pleased about something. Oh God. What had Bessie said? Please God she hadn't thought herself invincible with His Majesty's son in her arms. Please God they were still able to fix this.

Cecily hurried into Bessie's rooms, eager to find out the extent of the damage.

* * *

Marie rode back into the courtyard at Havering, only to be greeted by a volley of joyful gunfire that almost threw her from her horse. George, who had clearly been watching out for her, ran forward and caught at the animal's bridle to steady it as she slid down from the saddle.

"The King has his son, then?" she said, by way of greeting. George nodded.

"Just three hours ago. Henry Fitzroy, they're calling him."

"I must go and join the celebrations. As must you, brother. I'll just run up and change."

"Aye, but be careful, Marie. His Majesty noticed your absence earlier and he wasn't pleased."

"Right. Thanks for the warning, brother. I'll bear it in mind."

Marie blew her brother a kiss and raced indoors. Not twenty minutes later, now attired in a gown of rose-coloured satin embroidered with tiny crystals, she was circling the Hall, a cup of mead in one hand.

All of a sudden, a hand shot out and captured her wrist. It was the King, his drunken, bloodshot eyes hardening with a mixture of desire and loathing as he pulled her tight against his body, spilling her mead as he did so.

"Where have you been?" he slurred, "I sent for you earlier and you weren't here. Where were you?"

"Your Majesty – I -" Mary started. She never got a chance to finish her sentence. As abruptly as he had pulled her to him, the King thrust her away.

"Do you know what, Marie, never mind. I don't want to know. I don't want to spoil tonight by fighting. Just get out of my sight."

"But…Your Majesty…"

"Get out of my sight." The King stalked away, leaving Marie, shaken and confused, to stare after his retreating back, her words of congratulation dying on her lips.

* * *

"What have you done?! Daughter, what have you done?! One day he was virtually bowing and scraping before you, now he won't so much as look in your direction. What have you done?!"

"I don't know! Papa, I really don't know!" Marie was almost in tears as her father shook her violently.

"Well you must have done something. "Oh don't play the fool with me, girl. I don't have time for it. I'm leaving for Paris with the Earl of Derby at the end of the week and I don't want to leave a useless, past her best favourite behind me. I thought your years in France would have taught you better than that. Come on, out with it!"

He raised his hand and Marie cowered away from him, cringing in the face of his fury. Unexpectedly, however, her uncle spoke before the savage blow could fall.

"Thomas. It's not as bad as it could be. At least the King hasn't retreated into the Lady Blount's arms. And the child's made him sentimental. If she plays her cards right, the girl might yet win him back to her."

Marie stared at her uncle as he defended her. He turned to meet her gaze, eyes like granite.

"You'll waylay him after Mass tomorrow. You'll beg his forgiveness for whatever it is you did that offended him. On bended knee if need be. You'll assure him of your undying loyalty and tell him that, whatever you did, you only did it because you had his best interests at heart. Whether or not that is the truth, I don't care. You'll say it anyway. And for Christ's sake, make sure you look innocent. Understand?"

Marie nodded vigorously. Thomas Howard allowed himself the faintest glimmer of a smile at her obedience.

"Good. Then get yourself out of here. Go on!"

Marie needed no second urging. She picked up her skirts and ran.

* * *

Henry was just coming out of Mass the next morning when Mistress Marie fell to her knees in front of him.

"Your Majesty, I humbly beg your pardon for having displeased you. I know now that I should never have presumed to do anything such as visit Her Highness at Beaulieu without Your Grace's permission, especially not at a time when Your Majesty needed me so, but I beseech Your Majesty to remember that I never wanted to abuse the favour that you so graciously bestow upon me. I acted only out of the impulsive kindness of a young girl's heart and can only hope that Your Grace will realise that I only desired to see you reconciled with your daughter because I saw it as my Christian duty to reach out in kindness to a motherless child such as the Princess Mary and smile upon me for it."

Henry looked down upon her golden head as it was bent in supplication. He had meant to stay angry at her, but how could he when she begged so abjectly for his forgiveness? And she had been acting out of kindness, hadn't she? She'd been thinking of others besides herself; of his little girl, his little Pearl. It was more than Bessie had ever done. She'd even been jealous when he spent too much time with his own sister, for God's sake! Marie, on the other hand, clearly wouldn't mind that. She didn't seek to rule him, but rather let him command her, as Cata had always done. It was obvious which of the two, Bessie or Marie, cared for him more. Which of them cared for him in the way that Cata had done.

"Marie, look at me." He spoke gently, waving the others around them away. She raised her head a fraction, showing him the tears that were swimming in her eyes and threatening to spill over on to her dove-grey damask.

At the sight of them, a stab of guilt went through Henry. How could he ever have made this beauty cry? Hadn't he promised to be her Knight Gallant until London melted into the Thames? Knights Gallant didn't make their damsels cry.

He reached down to slide his palm under her chin.

"Did you truly do what you thought was best for me? On your own account? No one put you up to it?"

"No, Sire. I acted purely on my own foolish whim. Indeed, my brother George tried to stop me. He warned me that you would not like it." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"Yet you still did it?"

She bobbed her head, the tears on her lashes quivering dangerously.

"How can I argue with a sense of duty as keen as that?" Putting his hand under her shoulder blades, Henry helped Marie up, "You're a blessing to my Court and to my life, Mistress Marie. What boon would you ask of me? Ask, and, if it is within my power to do so, I shall grant it. A heart as innocent and caring as yours cannot go unrewarded."

"Anything, Sire?"

"Grant me permission to visit the Princess Mary at Beaulieu whenever I so desire."

"Granted," Henry laughed in surprise. He'd been expecting her to ask for a new dress or some jewels, like Bessie would have done. After all, wasn't that what all women liked?

"And say you'll come with me. Mary would love to see her Papa again."

Henry hesitated. The last time he'd seen Mary, she'd only been two, but already blossoming into a little copy of her mother. Katherine. Could he put himself through that pain?

"Please, Sire," Marie's voice was desperate, pleading. She slid her arms about his waist and peeped up at him, pleading.

Oh, how could he ever resist those eyes? And he'd promised her anything he could grant.

"Tell me when you want to go," he sighed, bending his head to find her lips with his.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Lady Salisbury listened to the happy giggles coming from Princess Mary's nursery and smiled to herself. Mistress Boleyn had been good for His Majesty after all. Unlike his previous mistresses, Mistress Boleyn had taken an interest in more than just what the King could do for her and her own. She'd encouraged him to face his fears and his grief by visiting the Princess with her and, while the first visits had been difficult, every single time the King came – though he still didn't come alone, Lady Salisbury noted – his relationship with his little daughter improved visibly.

And that, in turn, had been good for Her Highness. True, there had been tears and tantrums both before and after the first few visits, plus the fact that she had injured His Majesty's pride by running into Mistress Marie's arms yet treating him with the same diffidence she did all other strangers because she hadn't recognised him, but those were just teething problems. Two, three months down the line, they were all much happier together. As was shown by the fact that the Princess no longer refused visitors, would now eat a full meal without making more than minimum amount of fuss and consented to at least being dressed and changed as many times as was necessary to keep her looking like a Princess. She'd reverted to the fairly easy child that Lady Salisbury remembered from her first weeks as the Royal governess, when Lady Bryan had been replaced so that she might take over the charge of the newest Prince or Princess.

Taking up an armful of linens that needing mending, Lady Salisbury glanced into the play room to see Marie kneeling in the centre of the room, counting aloud.

Ah. Hide and seek. Her Highness's favourite game. The one she forced all the attendants to play…especially when she didn't want to do something she was supposed to.

As if she knew Lady Salisbury was watching her, Marie turned her head and the two of them shared a smile before the elder woman turned away, leaving the three of them in peace.

Marie, meanwhile, twisted back around, shutting her eyes and returning to her part in the game. She finished counting and got to her feet.

"Here I come, ready or not," she warned softly, before hunting through the room for her two playmates.

She found the King easily enough – his height and breadth made it difficult for him to hide satisfactorily, at least in a room cut down to the size of his four year old daughter – but Mary remained elusive.

"Can't find her?" Henry asked, after a while of watching her search fruitlessly.

"No. I don't know where the little vixen has got to," Marie admitted, turning to face him as he came up behind and encircled her waist with one arm. He cupped her cheek in one hand and seemed on the point of saying something, when Mary suddenly exploded out of Lady Salisbury's empty mending chest, "Here I am, Mama!"

Marie had been a second away from sweeping the Princess up into her embrace, but she checked at her words.

"Your Highness…" she began, but King Henry cut her off, "Did I hear you call Mistress Boleyn Mama, Mary? Would you like her to be your Mama?"

"Oh, yes, Papa!" Mary cried, burrowing against Marie's skirts, "She's everything a Mama ought to be!"

"I agree, Mary, I agree," the King chuckled, ruffling his little daughter's hair, then dropping to one knee beside her, holding out an emerald ring to Marie. A ring he appeared to have conjured out of nowhere.

"So, Mistress Boleyn, will you do me the honour? Of becoming, not only my wife, but Mary's mother and my Queen?"

Marie stared down at him, speechless. She felt as though she was in a dream. When she'd refused to sleep with the King the first time he'd asked he, she'd never dreamed it would come to this; didn't ever dare to believe – to even hope – that one day, she'd see the King of England down on his knees to her, begging her to become his wife. Yet it had. She was.

Mary's little hands tugging on her skirts brought her out of her trance.

"Oh, please say yes, Marie, please!"

Marie couldn't answer her; couldn't answer them. She opened her mouth to speak and, all of a sudden, tears welled up. Choking them back, she tore herself away from Mary's clingy hands, raced, half-blind, for the door, fumbled it open and fled. Fled to the peace of the Beaulieu gardens.

* * *

Henry found her there not half an hour later.

Sliding on to the stone bench beside her, he put his arms around her, curving them tenderly about her waist and held her. He said nothing, only held her as she wept.

Only once the passionate storm had begun to abate did he attempt words.

"Why are you crying, darling? I'm not sure many men are met with a flood of tears when they propose, you know."

She tried to respond to his teasing with a smile, but failed miserably, "Because I love you," she sobbed.

"What?! But…"

"I love you and I want to marry you so so badly, but I can't."

"Why not? I'm the King, I can marry whom I please."

"No you can't. I'm not good enough to be Your Grace's bride. Kings marry Princesses, not Knight's daughters. And even if I was good enough, there's Bessie Blount to be thought of. And her boy. It's not even three months since the lad was born. What will people think if Your Majesty turns around and marries me now?"

"Marie, darling, stop. Stop. First off, you must call me Henry and secondly, you mustn't worry about all this. I can solve all these problems."

"Really?" Her voice was thin, shaky. Looking at her, Henry realised how young she still was. Barely nineteen. Even younger than Bessie. Almost young enough to be his sister Margaret's daughter. He rubbed her back soothingly.

"Of course. Am I not the King of England? I can give titles to anyone I please. It will be the easiest thing in the world to decide the Ormonde dispute in your father's favour. That will leave you the Lady Marie and also release you from your understanding with the Butler boy. You were never precontracted, were you?"

"No, not officially. Our fathers could never agree on the finer details of the marriage contract."

"Well, then. All's clear on that score. And as for my son, well, I'll marry Bessie off to some minor Lord or other, dower her generously and then forget about the both of them. You needn't concern yourself with him. God knows I won't."

"No! You mustn't say that, Henry!" Marie exclaimed, startling them both, "You mustn't! The boy's your son! He's got your blood in his veins. He deserves better than to be fobbed off as some minor Lord's adopted heir."

Despite himself, Henry chuckled, "Bless you, Marie. Already acting as England's mother before you've even agreed to marry me."

"Oh, but I will. Do this for me and I will."

"There's the answer I was hoping for," Henry breathed, leaning in to steal a kiss from her.

* * *

"_Dearest Annie,_

_I don't know how much you've heard of this over in Paris, but much has happened here in England since I last wrote. To start with the family news, I suppose you must know that Papa is to be recalled from Paris and invested as Earl of Ormonde and Viscount Rochford, which means I shall never marry James, of course. Ostensibly, this ennoblement is as thanks for his years of diplomatic service, but it's not really. Oh that I could tell you the real reason! Unfortunately, I have been sworn to secrecy, so you'll just have to wait and find out through official dispatches like everybody else. _

_Of course, Papa's ennoblement isn't the only thing pending here at Richmond. King Henry's bastard by the Lady Blount is to become Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham. Not even three months old and he is to become one of the premier noblemen in England. Some people say it's a farewell present for the Lady Blount and that she will be married off as soon as a suitable husband can be found; others that the King intends to marry her and make young Hal Fitzroy his heir and that this is but a first step to that. Everyone here at Court waits with bated breath to see who is correct. Some know, of course, but are too loyal to His Majesty to say._

_Anyway, how are you, my dearest sister? How is life in France? Busy, I presume, since you've scarcely written since Christmas, except for a hasty note for my birthday. Take care of yourself and do write soon._

_Meanwhile, I remain, as ever, _

_Your sister Marie."_

* * *

"_Marie,_

_You can't leave your note at that, you vixen! You know I hate it when you tantalise me so, I always have. Either tell me properly or don't tell me at all, mon dieu! But you guessed right, I did know that Papa was to be called back to London and made Earl of Ormonde. How could I not? He was cock-a-hoop when the news came from London. Honestly, I'll be relieved when he finally sails. If nothing else, I need a respite before he's back here, breathing down my neck like the dragon we all know he is._

_I only hope the rest of the Embassy stays here. There is a young man in the party, Henry Percy, who is 'tres charmant', as we French say. Madame Marguerite says he's much taken with me and while I don't know whether to believe her, it is true I enjoy his company at balls and feasts and the like. I look forward to getting to know him better once Papa is gone and can't always remind me to act as befits the Lady Anne Rochford. Mon dieu! As if I haven't had the best example of courtly behaviour I could possibly have in Madame Marguerite!_

_But now I am growing careless and ungrateful in what I have to say, and the hour grows late and my candle short, so I shall end my letter here. God be with you, ma soeur. God and my blessings._

_A toi pour toujours,_

_Anna_


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